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Unlike Jack, who each and every time we work on the house manages to hammer his thumb or slice open some exposed skin, I escaped any injury for three years.  I think my pristine safety record caused me to become a bit cocky while at the same time, I worried about Jack’s progressively more severe accidents.  I was just waiting for him to walk inside and tell me the Sawzall had slipped and he’d mistakenly hacked his arm off.  I am glad to report that hasn’t happened yet.

My first injury occurred while we pulled up the wood flooring.  I was pounding out the nails and barely felt the tiny pin prick.  A sliver of blood seeped out of the skin and I almost felt proud of myself for shedding a drop.  Proud enough to take a photo:

Can you see it there on my pinky?  Yes, I know it’s barely ten red blood cells, but still–I shed blood, sweat and tears for the house!
That little nick was only the beginning and unfortunately, it wasn’t just me.

I’d been working hard all morning, enjoying watching Evelyn and Claire play in the shade while I finished the last dozen pieces of wood flooring.  Gripping a very new, very sharp wood chisel to grind the petrified dirt out of the grooves, I was being extremely cautious.  Then, SLIP!

Pain.  And more PAIN.

After coddling myself for a moment, I took a look at my darling pinky finger to see how bad it was.  I was pretty sure I hadn’t severed it right off.  Phew.  It wasn’t dangling by a layer of skin or anything.  Fortunately, it was just a flesh wound and ironically, not from the chisel.  I whacked it right on the corner of the wood.

(I’m warning you–it’s not pretty…)
I won’t bother describing it for you.  I will however confirm that it hurts like mad unless it has a band aid on it.  Evelyn is right–band aids make everything better.

I don’t know if the pain made me nervous or if I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and was in a frantic hurry to get the floor done, but I did the same thing three more times to the same pinky.  It smarted worse each time and when I finally scraped the last fleck of dirt off the wood, my finger looked as though a rabid coyote had mauled it.
To add insult to injury, the wounds kept coming.  Jack stepped on a nail.  (Good excuse for a tetanus booster I suppose).  I eventually did swipe myself with that razor sharp chisel.

Then Hercules used Evelyn’s leg and foot to gain traction as he ran away.


She always tells me a tiger scratched her when one of the cats takes a swat at her.  Our band aid supply was running low but I indulged her and luckily, it stopped her tears.


Next, I stepped on the dead stub of a sapling and got a lovely blood blister right on the pad of my foot.  Now that stung every time I took a step.

Do my dirty feet give it away?  I suppose that’s the risk of going shoeless.
But for some reason, I didn’t learn my lesson.  I was beginning the think a blood transfusion might be in order if I kept it up.
Claire was the only one not to join our weekend full of injury.  Even then, she was preoccupied with teeth erupting from her gums.  She had plenty to cry about too I guess.

All joking aside, I’m very grateful that all of our injuries have been flesh wounds.  They smart and sting like the dickens but we’ve avoided anything life-threatening.  That’s exactly how I’d like to keep it.


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True stories of raising children, remodeling, braving the elements and plotting out life, all while living on a humble acreage in central Indiana.

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