I was feeding the basher on my bed. The punk climbed up and sat on his knees on the edge of the bed. Although I was relieved that he wasn't sitting on top of me as he is wont to do when I am engaged with the basher, I suggested that he come a bit closer so he wouldn't be tempted to fall off the bed. Just as the words came out of my mouth, his little body surged off the side, head-first onto the wood floor.
Injury #1: He complained that his thumb hurt. No obvious signs of concussion.
Sometimes I fit the stay-at-home-mom cliche: sweatshirt, ponytail, flip flops. But once in a while, I try to look a little more presentable. Out came the curling iron. As I wrapped my long strand around the iron, my arm forgot that it needed to be out of the way of the hot stick.
Injury #2: Burn on left wrist.
My punk requested "cheese toasties" (my man's name for open-faced grilled cheese, broiled in the oven) with his soup for lunch. What my punk wants, my punk gets. Sometimes. So, even though we only had one relatively thin slice of cheddar left in the fridge, I was determined to get two even thinner slices out of it in order to cover a slice of bread. As I grabbed my very long, recently-sharpened kitchen knife, I thought, "This could be dangerous. I wish I had a cheese slicer." I dug into the cheddar and whoosh-shlrbt! The blade had penetrated my finger! My first thought was, "Crap. My man will never let me live this down." (He's always after me about the way I wield my giant kitchen knives.) My second thought was, "If I need a stitch, will it heal before my next quartet gig in two weeks?"
Injury #3: A very bloody left forefinger.
I was pacing the kitchen with my finger wrapped in its third paper towel, holding it over my head to try to stop the bleeding. Suddenly, the punk let out a pitiful, whiny scream. I looked over to find him hanging by his head from the tall kitchen stool! He had tried to dismount by sliding feet first, face-down in between the seat and the rod that acts as arm rest, but his large noggin got stuck.
Injury #4: Mostly his pride.
As I was still a bit preoccupied with my blasted finger, I thought it would be best if I moved the punk to a safer chair. One a bit closer to the ground, without the capacity to seriously injure if he chose to dismount improperly. However, as this is another paragraph in my series of calamities, you know this chair turned out to be just as hazardous as the last one, right? He was on all fours: kneeling on the chair and leaning on his hands. The chair was quite close to the table, and it was twisted so the seat back met the table. Somehow, his hand slipped off the chair so he ended up with his head caught in between the seat back and the table, his chin hitting the table top as his arm surged toward the floor.
Injury #5: Mostly his pride again, especially since I couldn't stop laughing. It looked funny!