It comes in threes

I’ve been pondering what the third freaky accident will be.

The first, as you may already have read, happened in the early hours of Monday morning.

By ‘early hours’ I mean before 7am.

As in, at around 6.3oam.

Before 7am, I am a hold-your-eyelids-open-with-matchsticks kind of a girl. Even at 6.59am, I can be observed attempting to slay alarm clocks with wild sweeping arm movements.

But at 7am my eyelids contentedly hold their own. My frown is upside down. Sometimes there’s even a spring in my step. And I greet my son with a, “Rise and shine!” instead of a, “Can I get in there with you?”

Truly sad, because during the week I have four, yes FOUR pre-7am starts.

This week started with a crash and some wailing.

I’d managed to drag both myself and my sleepy-headed boy out of bed. He dressed himself and headed downstairs for breakfast while I slunk into the bathroom, trying to convince myself this wasn’t some ungodly hour and then I heard the noises.



I separated my once pert bottom from the toilet and raced my almost 4o year old legs down the stairs without consideration. (The consideration being that I have fallen down the stairs on many occasions, last time breaking my finger and the time before that, my tail-bone).

I reached the kitchen, all bones intact, and discovered my shocked son surrounded by broken crockery and yelling about his eye.

Despite my pre-7am state, I managed to have a flurry of thoughts:

“Eye doctor!”


“Eye operation!”


Adrenaline shocked into wide awake (possible alarm clock invention any one? ‘The Adrenagong’, I should patent the name…) I held my son’s head in my hand and stared into his eye. He decided, at that moment, actually, his eye’s alright. But he bawled on because his mouth really hurt.

That’s when I noticed my pre-breakfast dosage of blood:

It turns out, that as the bowl hit the tabletop, a rogue, savage splinter, defied physics by firing back up at him and striking him on the lip.

Even more astounding is the fact that the injured area could not be seen on the outside of his face, instead, after mopping away the blood, I found the deep cut inside his mouth.

I can just imagine him standing there, mouth gaping, as the bowl fell.

That was on Monday.

Tuesday came and we went about our business during the day without much incident.

Really, that should have been a warning sign. There’s always at least one incident.

My husband headed off to bed early, not feeling too well, and I decided to be nice and make him a hot toddy to help him sleep.

I took one of those capable cups out of the cupboard.

Ironic that in the rhyme I wrote him, I called them ‘Capable cups’.

I filled it with milk and popped it in the microwave for 90 seconds.

I opened a miniature whisky and removed the lid from the sugar bowl and waited for the microwave to triumphantly ‘beep’.

I attempted to extract the incapable cup from the microwave but I had to let it go.

I’m trying not to exaggerate here, but the heat in the handle reminded me of molten lava. I don’t mind telling you that I’m not brave and I did scream.

I rammed my hand under the full force of the cold tap, while the rest of my body took part in some strange kind of unerotic dance and my face winced.

I carefully used an oven glove to manhandle the crap cup and pour the not-so-warm-milk into an old, scratched but non-maiming mug from the back of the cupboard.

Wishing the whisky was for me, I poured an extra-large measure into the milk and carried it into my already sleeping husband.

I woke him, of course.

Then showed him my battle scars.

Four blisters. One of which is 15mm long. I know. I measured it.

He lovingly dragged his still pert bum out of bed and dressed my damaged hand with some magic healing cream and a bandage.

Two freaky accidents in two days.

On Wednesday, someone accidentally jammed my rapidly-turning-into-a-damaged boy’s hand in the classroom door.

However, I couldn’t really consider this to be a freaky accident.

The children and I made lunch together. Which translates as: I waved around my bandaged hand in a directing capacity.

I sent my son downstairs to fetch bottled water, but he returned from the cellar, hand swelling and blue-fingered. Having managed to hit his hand off the crate in exactly the same spot that it had been jammed in the door at school.

This must be the third freaky accident, surely?

Please say, “Yes!” and then I can be done with it. 😉


36 thoughts on “It comes in threes”

  1. oh gosh!!!!! please no more injuries this week. Riveting story—i could relate to so much. i’ve had weeks where i fell down the stairs, burned my hand on a microwaved container and reachig into the oven–dropped glass dishes and cut myself….and don’t even ask about the hot glue gun. that guy should be a registered weapon!!!

    1. Both my husband and I have whacked our knee on the car today. Me on the steering column?!? I can honestly tell you, I look quite colourful…

  2. Are you challenging me to a contest of bumps and bruises? If so, I’m not sure who will win. I think I get triple points for my husband’s head injury. Then there’s my youngest’s large bump on the forehead. Then my bruised thumb from hitting a doorframe and my bruised knee from banging it in my car. I can’t wait to hear what you come up with next…

    By the way, I’ve burned myself on a cup handle out of the microwave before. Those suckers get burning hot before anything is the cup gets even warm.

    1. 😉

      I banged my knee in the car today!! On the steering column!! I have constant bruises on my legs though, (to the point it’s embarrassing wearing shorts in the summer) so I guess it’s nothing spectacular.

      I walk into the kitchen door frame every day. It’s like a daily ritual now…

      No wonder we both identify with Mr Bump!!! 😉

      The ones that turn my stomach the most are the ’embedding stories’. Once I stood on the edge of a plank of wood, it shot up and a nail in it went into my knee. Blah!!!

      And a couple of the most embarrassing ones: on introducing my son to my new in-laws I whacked his head on the roof of the car causing an incredibly bad nose bleed, falling backwards off a wall when some young man was declaring his undying love to me, and ouch, accidentally head butting (with the back of my head) the father of the host family I was staying with and giving him a black eye!!

      1. I have glasses and I’m glad that I live in the time that I do, because I really would have been wearing milk bottles!! 😉

        A white stick probably wouldn’t do me any good, but it would warn others that I’m coming!

  3. Ouch! My daughter once smashed the exact same finger 3 times within two weeks eventually loosing the fingernail. When she was first learning to walk she fell and injured her lower lip three times, the last time biting it through (she still has a scar). So three does seem to be the magic number, just hopefully it doesn’t have to be three of the same injuries to the same person. I guess that didn’t come out as encouraging as I meant it to be… So sorry for your owies.

  4. Yes – that’s all you said we needed to say.

    When my childrenw were younger and I had 3 boys in the house I used to joke that the hospital had me on their list of regular visitors because I seemed to spend half of my life in the emergency department. So I can truly appreciate your story and sympathise

    Hope everyone is staying safe and out of harms way – you included

    1. Thank you!!

      Funnily, I always joke that we’re on first name terms with the doctors!!!

      Also, I’m often heard saying “Get down from there! I don’t have time to go to the hospital today!” People around me laugh, they actually think I’m joking…

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