My husband scolded me again. For giving our sons butter knives instead of steak knives. Call it the unyielding Mommy instinct: I KNOW they’re teenagers and I KNOW they’re even taller than I am. But knives are SHARP. I’ve learned this from my own experience.
You see, when the boys were much younger, I was rushing to get dinner on:
Oldest says, “I’m hungry!” so I grab a roll, planning to cut it, spread butter on it and give it to him. So I grasp said-roll… and a serrated butter knife. Yep. Apparently someone thought it would be GENIUS to put sharp, jagged edges on a knife that is ALSO slippery with butter.
“OUCH!” I say.
Oldest son, “What’s wrong?”
“Oh-“I say while inspecting my finger. “Oh. Oh … Lord …”
“Mom?!”
”I’m FINE, fine, fine …” hastily grabbing paper towels and realizing NO mere band aid – or even a BOX of them – will handle this. “Say … let’s call your grandparents (thank God my in-laws are in town)! Now, hand Mommy the phone.”
“Hi-HI Mom!” I say to my mother-in-law, “Well – ha ha – I gotta a little boo-boo,” I tell her what happened while NOT looking at said boo-boo because I’m a wuss and don’t need to faint in front of the children. “Can you take me to the E-R?!”
Youngest son, “Mom, what’s an E-?? “
“YES! And can Dad watch the boys?! For a little bit? Allan’s at work…”
So with Dad babysitting the boys, Mom and I head for the local Emergency Room. Me, honestly LAUGHING at how ridiculous this situation is, because I had planned such a NICE quiet evening at home in the Man Cave. With Dinner. That included rolls. But NOT a trip to the ER.
My husband arrives at the hospital and we are escorted to a room where a doctor’s assistant shoots pain-killer into my finger, “JEEE-zuz …” I say feeling woozy like I’m going to pass out.
“OK. Let’s sew that up,” says the WAY too cheerful doctor’s assistant, who picks up a large curved needle and goes to work on my-
“JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH!!!!” I pray. Out loud.
“Um… Did that hurt?-“
“Would I REALLY call on the HOLY FAMILY if it DIDN’T?!”
Apparently the pain killer wasn’t working yet …
Half a dozen stiches, a large bandage and a few tears later, I was heading home.
Much wiser.
Now, I try to not rush when I make dinner. I attempt to be extra careful when handling knives.
And, yes, I STILL set butter-knives next to my sons’ plates at dinner. Lord forbid one of them has inherited my non-knife handling skills.
Like any mother, I’d rather go to the E-R than have to take my beautiful sons there.
May they, and your children, always be well. 😉
This has been an actual conversation in the Man Cave. What’s the Man Cave? Read this.
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Heather Bosch's Man Cave 
And then there’s my eternal frustration with seeing good steak knives used to spread things (p-butter, jelly, butter) or cut things (cardboard boxes, speaker cable, electrical chord), leaving only butter knives left when you need to cut, you know, steak.
Believe I inherited that particular grouse from the Dutchman. 🙂
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