The Bean passed a test this weekend. It wasn’t Algebra, Biology, English or History. He passed the Blood Test or What you do when you slice your fingers with a Henckel Test. (Dang, they’re sharp!)
He kept it together. Maybe he didn’t know how bad he sliced his thumb. Maybe he thought the blood was cool. Whatever it was, he was ‘pretty matter of fact’ about it. “Dad, where are the band aids? Dad, where’s the cheese slicer?” (Hmmm, that an interesting pair of questions.)
So, I find The Bean, standing in the kitchen with a paper towel wrapped around his thumb, cursing that someone hid the cheese slicer on him. (He gets that from me. I do the same thing every time the cleaning ladies come and “organize” my mess. I can’t find anything… but, I digress.)
So, I find The Bean, standing – bloody paper towel, mumbling, more irked he can’t make a sandwich than–anything else. “Let me see, buddy. Ew, that’s gonna need stitches.” (Shoot – my team just tied the game… Oh well, time for a trip to the ER. Shoot, that’s gonna take hours… It’s a beautiful day, I want to run and I have a date with La Pistolita tonight. Oh no!)
Alas, I remembered the urgent care option. A quick call to the insurance company (wow, they answered the phone) and my insurance would cover a trip to a local office. The two hour we were in the urgent care office provided me the time to show The Bean all of my scars and share stories of stitching events. The nine-iron to the forehead, the utility knife in the palm, the utility knife to the finger, the bagel slicing episode. Maybe we both need a safety course on knives.
Inside of two hours, we were on our way home with three stitches, antibiotics and a newfound respect for sharp objects. The sun was shining, snow melting, my team won without my direct support and I was only 30 minutes late for date night. I’ll take it.