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:
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. 😉