Chainsaw Massacre Redux
My youngest, Annika, is 11 going on 30. She's like a pygmy adult the way she carries herself, the things she (unfortunately) knows and the fact that she no longer needs a mom. Until recently, I think she was convinced that mom's are fellow boarders living under the same roof. But the other day, it was clear to me and her both that she's not ready to move into her own apartment and live among rock stars. Without my knowing, she started to cut a block of soap from a soap making kit and cut her finger. I heard a scream and ran to meet her halfway. Her hand was covered with blood (dripping steadily on my nicest area rug) so I did a quick check, guided her back to the blood proof tiled area, and put pressure until the gushing quelled. She's sobbing so hard, you'd think her arm had just been devoured by a Great White. Actually, as I glance around the kitchen I see blood spatters everywhere: the cabinets, leather chairs, floor, walls. It looked like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre redux, seriously. I found out later that those spatters were not due to a large bore artery being severed. She just shook her hand wildly as soon as it happened. The purpose of this still eludes me. All I know is that if we ever sell the house, they better not check the place with Luminal or the new owners will have nightmares for years. It took some time to get the bleeding to stop, and during that time, Annika was in the throes of panic. She was so scared that the damage was severe. She was pale and clammy. She started to throw up between gulping sobs. She was shaking all over. I held her in my lap, grateful for the time to snuggle, then looked at the wound with great anticipation. The cut was less than a centimeter long and very shallow--it must have just hit the right place for a blood fest to happen. Anyway, Dr. Mommy cleaned and Steri-Stripped it and kissed and blew and made it all better. So I guess I have some grand purpose in her life after all. At least for the rest of the week.