So much can go so wrong in five minutes.
Saturday night we were making a simple dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches and sliced apples. The kids were outside playing. I had just sliced the sandwiches and put them on plates when Aidan and Beatrix began to scream. I ran to the door in time to hear Aidan shriek that Beatrix had been stung by several wasps. Beatrix held out her arm toward me and I scooped her up and ran her to the faucet. My first instinct is always cold water. A child’s eyeball could be dangling out and I would say, “Get that thing into some cold water!”
After a minute or two, I took her into the living room with a bag of frozen corn for her hand. We sat on the couch and snuggled. My husband went outside to find the source of the wasps. He reported they had built a small nest in one of the hollow legs of the gas grill. From Beatrix-level, it was quite easy to see. She must have reached out to touch it, not understanding the danger.
He decided to kill as many as he could using his patented High Pressure Garden Hose Nozzle Blasting and Foot Stomping Method. They had just hurt his baby girl and mercy wasn’t on his mind.
The kids sat down with their sandwiches and the bowl of apples in the kitchen. In the next room, I continued doling out the sympathy and Beatrix continued soaking it up. Suddenly, all five of the big kids began to scream.
I thought of my husband. I was sure he was being attacked by swarming wasps. I jumped up and ran around the corner into the kitchen where I stopped dead in my tracks. There was blood, everywhere. The floor, the cupboard doors, the refrigerator, the oven door, and Joel, standing in the middle looking ashen. His hand was deep red. It was my turn to shriek, “What happened?”
“Joel was cutting an apple!” they wailed.
I saw the large butcher knife, covered in blood. I yelled for Lee, who heard the kids screaming and thought the wasps had somehow gotten into our house. He tumbled inside, saw Joel, scooped him up and ran for the bathroom to run his hand under cold water. The kids were hysterical. Sam, who hadn’t witnessed the knife incident, thought the wasps were in the house so he ran to the basement to hide. He thought all the blood was from the wasps.
I grabbed towels and my husband put pressure on Joel’s thumb. The cut was severe and deep. There was no question regarding stitches. It was obvious. After a few tense seconds of haggling over who was going and where exactly, my husband left with Joel and Ryley, who went along to help. As a veteran of hand stitches and a mature kiddo, he would prove to be a steady and amazing presence at the Children’s Hospital urgent care that night.
Left to calm down the kids and clean up the scene, I got to work. The kids were deeply worried for Joel all evening. I found blood in the most astonishing places, which proved how violently it erupted from his little thumb. I had to mop the floor several times. The work was a blessing, though, because it kept me from wallowing in worry. I knew he was going to be okay.
Four hours later, they arrived home. Joel has seven stitches in his four-year-old thumb and it is wrapped in a thick splint which resembles a cast. He endured several shots in various points around his hand. The cut was deep and long and his thumb has to remain immobilized for several days. In ten days, he’ll get the stitches removed.
When he walked in the door, he said, “Mommy, I feel great!” Me too, kiddo.
My husband reported that Joel announced he wasn’t going to use knives until he was sixteen. I can live with that.
Now, a couple of days later, his only complaint is itching. Beatrix’s hand is fine, too.
Writing about it is my cold water.
