Thoughts from a Thinking Girl

This morning, I cut my right index finger on my new fancy mandolin vegetable slicer. The zucchini slices were fine, but my finger . . . less so. It was a quick, sharp, clean slice, and it was a bleeder. I had just called to my son to come tell me his ideas about how to prepare tonight’s dinner vegetable, and while I was waiting for him to gather his school stuff, decided on the thin slices. Less of a democracy in the kitchen than we purport to have, but we only had about 10 minutes before we had to head out. When he came out, eager to see what I had asked of him, he saw my hand above my head, a grimace of pain on my face, and I told him I hadn’t called him because I’d cut myself, but to get his input on the dinner vegetable. I sheepishly admitted I’d made the decision without him. And we both saw the price I paid for that.

So there I am, bleeding, needing to get us out the door, wondering if the bleeding was going to stop in time for me to drive the car, realizing I was going to need to sit down and wait this one out. But I can’t just do that. I found a way to multitask – me on the sofa, arm raised, the perfect time to launch into a teaching moment.

I reminded him of the first aid lessons in a cut (raise the body part above your heart and apply pressure). We went over the signs I’d need to see to make sure the bleeding was done and I could resume normal activity.

I asked for his help assembling some paperwork we needed to give to a teacher today. He turned on a CD of holiday music to help me pass the time. We were going through all the things that he could do to help us get out the door, and then it occurred to me. He, who has always been the recipient of first aid spray and Neosporin and bandages could take the power today and treat me. So, I had him help me get down the first aid supplies and had him take out what we needed. I taught him how to find the spray hole in the antiseptic spray bottle. He sprayed my finger, and I realized that he had immediately begun to count to 10 in Spanish, a trick I use with him to help distract his mind from the stinging and to help pass the time before the stinging stops. He opened the bandage, prepared it with the antibiotic ointment, and put in on my finger. Then he put on a second bandage, since fingertips are impossible to cover with just one.

And which bandages did he use? The Curious George™ ones. He hasn’t wanted to wear them for a few years, and no mother worth her salt could throw away something useful like perfectly good Curious George bandages, so we have a bunch of them that have been decaying in the first aid supplies, where they’re likely to remain long after he heads off to college. I conspiratorially told my son that he’s too old to wear them, but why let them go to waste? My clients wouldn’t mind. He smiled.

I wore two bright green and yellow bandages all day, one that even had George and a red and yellow beach ball. My clients followed my lime green fingertip in their peripheral vision; apparently nothing can stop me from speaking with my hands.

I have taught my son well. Although my finger was throbbing all day, still is, in fact, and it’s no easy task to type with a painful, bandaged index finger, I felt as wrapped in his love as if he was the grown up who’d kissed my booboo.

I find myself searching for these kinds of moments, the ones where I let him exert more and more power over the outcome, more and more influence on his world. This morning, he bandaged my cut, then went out to start the car (with slow successive approximations to this task he can now start my car, turn on the front and rear defrosters, and pop open the trunk to put his karate bag in as if he’s been doing this all his life), then headed off to school to learn about the American Revolution, prime and composite numbers, and the science of motion, through creating popsicle stick go-karts.

His adolescence is right around the corner, and we’re transitioning, one bandage at a time.