My finger is black, but I don’t have the blues. An occasional semi-serious ouchy is good for a parent (and grandparent) to remind one that life can really hurt.
When you watch your toddlers pinging off tables, door facings or walls, you tend to be more sympathetic if you’ve recently dinged yourself (a pretty constant state for me, actually). It’s easy to forget just how badly scrapped knees hurt unless you’ve had some in recent memory.
At my 10-year high school reunion, my legs were covered in scrapes and scabs from wiping out on a neighbor kid’s skateboard. I assumed it was karma for requiring my then 3- and 4-year-old children to be little troopers when they had boo-boos. I know I was more sympathetic after my spectacular skid, but we still had the “no blood, no tears” rule.
Not that I’m glad that I caught my pinky finger between a paint roller and the fuzzy cover when I was pressing as hard as I could to get it assembled. Nor that my finger was stuck and flat and I was here alone and it took me a bit of time and some serious struggling to get the roller off. For a sec, it looked like the end of the finger might be a goner.
(Zuzu wanted to help – she rarely leaves my side when I’m working around the house – but she didn’t know what to do.)
I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone, myself included. But it was a good reminder to slow down, be more careful and expect the unexpected.
This post was going to be a much longer litany of odd and funny self-inflicted injuries I’ve sustained as an adult who should know better – but I keep forgetting and using my little finger to type, so I’ll stop here.
Be careful out there. And beware rogue painting equipment.