On Thanksgiving, my lil sis cut herself. And I heard my big sis had hurt herself as well. Little Dude said, “Mom, it’s your turn now.” I told him that was a horrible thing to say. It was virtually guaranteeing something would happen.
I managed to get through Thanksgiving unharmed. I managed to get through Friday unharmed. I managed to through Saturday unharmed.
Today is Sunday. And it was my turn.
I was making beef stew for my dad. Cut all these beautiful carrots and set them aside in a bowl. Got my onion cut. Got the meat and cut it into nice strips and then into squares. Dredged the meat in a flour/garlic salt/pepper mixture and threw it into a hot pot to sear. Everything was looking beautiful and smelling great. I added the onions to the meat. Then I threw in two cans of vegetable broth. My mouth was watering over the delectable aroma. I decided I needed a bigger pot since I still had to add veggies and potatoes and the biggest pot available was one my sister had put up on the top shelf of one cupboard. I grabbed a chair, climbed up, and grabbed the pot.
Rule #1: never let the tallest person in the family put things away that the shortest person in the family will need to use.
Rule #2: Store lids (especially glass ones) separately. At the very least, put them off to side. There were TWO lids in this pot. I didn’t know it was there. I couldn’t see it.
One of the lids slipped off the stack and went slamming into the counter. The bowl with the carrots shattered. The lid shattered. The bowl with the flour mixture shattered. The two drinking glases — the most fragile things on the counter — survived.
As this was happening, I tried to grab the lid. All I got for my efforts was a handful of shattered glass and a profusely bleeding thumb. My big concern was having glass embedded in my thumb. I couldn’t tell. I was holding it under gently running cold water, trying to see if there was any glass. I couldn’t move it because the water would catch one of the flaps of skin and I would have to fight back the urge to curse. Yes, I restrained myself.
My dad tried to come out to the kitchen to see if I was okay and I had to tell him to get out because there was glass EVERYWHERE! Can’t have a diabetic with peripheral neuropathy, a walker, and recovering from knee surgery wandering about in a glass-strewn room. Somehow or another, he managed to get out to the garage and haul in his shop vac for me. God bless my dad! Then he went to get four of the eight boxes of bandages he has for me. He kept asking if I was okay and he wanted to see the thumb to make sure there was no glass still in the wounds. Did I mention my dad doesn’t do blood? It makes him woozy. And here he was doing his best to make sure I was okay.
Gotta love dads!
He called my sister to ask her for a broom (of all the things he doesn’t have at the house!!). My sister shows up with a vacuum cleaner and rags.
A few hours later, the glass is gone. The stew is almost done (moments away…mere moments). The floors have been scrubbed (kitchen, living room, hallways, bathrooms). I grabbed a glove and covered my hand so I could clean both bathrooms while my sister did her thing. And laundry is almost done.
It was my turn. My turn to get hurt. And from the way the stew smells, it was totally worth it.