I was making dinner last night (part of a healthy eating challenge to myself -- not eating out/getting take-out every night), and things were going swimmingly until I remembered I needed to chop up some cilantro to put in at the end of my yummy Mexicali pasta and beans. So, I whip out the cilantro and start chopping away, when wham! I hack off a bit of my finger. Okay, it was more like a gouge? I really don't know how to describe it -- not a cut that could be stitched, but still hurt and bled like a bitch.
Of course, J.R. wasn't home -- it was just me and Max, so I tried to get the bleeding under control before I called to the boy. "Max, can you help me?" Mumble. Shuffle. Snort. "I cut myself!" And then there was movement. And he got the band-aids and dug out the hydrogen peroxide (couldn't find the Neosporin), and then he tried to hand them off to me. And then I patiently explained with the blood and the pain and all, he was going to have to actually help me. Which he did, though he wasn't super-excited about the blood. Gingerly holding my bandaged finger, I then calmly turned off all the burners, made sure dinner was going to survive until J.R. got home, and called my mommy. And even though she was 3,000 miles away, she still made it all better.