Come to me after you’ve stopped the bleeding

Heh…that’s the sort of thing my mother would tell us when we got hurt. She had no stomach for blood, hanging flaps of skin, ripped-off nails or any of the common ouchies of childhood. Which is good, in a way, since we all learned how to do basic first aid on ourselves and each other at a very, very young age (aided to a great degree by Girl Scout trainings and leftover Red Cross books from my gramps, who was the head honcho of our chapter at the time). It was a skill that came in handy when the hubster took several largish bits off his left hand a few years back, and I spent the following several weeks changing icktastic surgical bandages.

Came in handy today, too. One of our kids hit the court hard, fingers first, going after a ball and immediately thereafter someone else stepped on top of his fingers. Can you say “fountain of blood?” I thought you could.

Sarah (who’s back from her time off – yay!) sent him in to my tender ministrations, so I turned the remaining inside crew over to a volunteer and spent the next several minutes trying to keep most of the bleeding contained to the kitchen sink and to convince him that hydrogen peroxide doesn’t really sting all that bad (and it didn’t, much to his surprise – hopefully, I’ll get some serious trust cred off that one). I fuzzed him up, tissued him off and stuck a few bandages on. The damages wound up being one horribly torn-off nail *shudder* and one nasty-looking slice on another finger, complete with gaping skin-flap *double shudder*.

But I was calm. I was cool. I was efficient. I was woozy…

Poor kid. And poor me. Made me want to hug and hurl at the same time. My body didn’t know which way to go.

Other than that, the day was pretty tame. Spent much of the morning following up on conference contacts and catching up on stuff that came in over the weekend. Went out to lunch with the hubster to test-drive a potential replacement truck (which turns out to be a not-so-potential replacement, as the dealer won’t come down enough to put it in our no-debt price range. Gah, back to square one). The whole Florence Nightingale thing was just a discordant coda to a rather nice, pleasant day.

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