These last few days have been rough.
Snot. Low grade fevers. Tantrums. Injuries.
And the boys have been sick and fussy, too.
This morning I finally put the cherry on top and got a 2nd degree burn.
Burning myself isn’t really anything special. My husband doesn’t even look up when I shriek each night while preparing dinner.
Man, that roasting pan is hot! Who knew, after 4 hours in a 450 degree oven?
Ouch! That pasta steam hurts!
Damn, I shouldn’t have touched the baking sheet with my bare hand!
Screech. Squeal. Yelp.
But today I really outdid myself.
I put Xavi’s frozen peach slices in a plastic container with the lid on. Then I put it in the microwave. I put Xavi in his eating chair (far away, thank God.) And then I heard a funny sound. Kind of like our crazy radiators…but coming from the microwave.
I opened the door and stood frozen to the spot staring down a hissing, gurgling container. Unable to move.
And just like those war movies (have you seen my blog tag line?) where they suddenly realize a bomb or grenade is about to go off and cover themselves just as it explodes, I finally connected the dots and shielded my face.
The top flew off and there was peach debris everywhere. Fortunately, both boys were far out of reach.
Unfortunately, this means I can no longer make fun of the grandparents for their ‘micro mishap.’
(Explosions are crazy things. Somehow the container itself is clean as a whistle. Have I discovered a new cleaning method???)
I looked down and saw a big piece of peach stuck to my chest.
I grabbed the wound, fell to the floor, and looked down at what I suddenly realized wasn’t just some warm, gooey mess, but a fatal wound. Carlitos came running and looked deeply in my eyes, promising he would tell daddy how much I loved him. Begging me to just hold on.
Oh, wait, that’s right. This wasn’t actually a war movie. Life with kids just feels like a war movie sometimes.
Carlitos actually didn’t budge from the other room where he had been yelling and crying for 10 minutes about the sweater I was forcing him to wear and the choice of socks I layed out.
Mommy’s hurt herself, Carlitos. Please stop screaming about your sweater and come in here!
IIIIII Doooon’t Waaaant Tooooo Weaaaaar Thiiiis Sweeeaaaterrrr!
You’re not taking off that sweater! (Even in the midst of pain, I never go back on my word. That is Parent Rule number ONE.)
I peeled the hot peach off my chest. (Don’t worry, this isn’t suddenly going in some sexual niche direction.)
Red skin. Raised skin. Peeling skin.
Uh oh. This is a little bit worse than my usual hot pan-grabbing each night.
I called my mother-in-law because she just had a (much worse) burn a few months ago and would know what to do.
Cold water. Baking soda salve. Then bacitracin covered with gauze.
I emailed my husband to warn him that I may have a scar on my chest that looks like puckered lips.
Concerned response from husband: That’s hot.
Thanks, Paris Hilton.
The wound got bandaged, the children got fed, and I have continued about my day, wiping snotty noses and dirty bottoms.
A war movie ending would have been much cooler.
Oh, and Carlitos is still wearing that sweater, thankyouverymuch.