The Finger

Last Friday was business as usual. I came to the office and started my day. I made a few phone calls, and started adding content into the html template I was modifying. All along, I was cheerfully chatting with George on aim. We send each other links of things we think are funny, or that we think the other one should read.

Then this gem of a conversation occurred:

My heart immediately started pounding. I have a 1 hour commute, and George stays home with our 2 year old, Noah. This wasn't an ideal situation, but it was workable. He could bandage it up, and wait until I finished my work for the morning. Changing diapers would probably be difficult for him, but it wasn't his main hand, and if Noah cooperated, it would be ok. And then this:

I promptly sent my "Taking a personal day" email, slammed my laptop shut, and left the office. Throughout the car ride I kept picturing my husband past out, finger bleeding, and Noah running around him yelling "Dada Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!"

When I got home about 40 minutes later, he was cooking steak. "It was out defrosting," he shrugged. I sighed, exasperated at the amount of stress he had caused me with little remorse. He decided against getting stitches, and I got a day off work to take care of my whimpering husband.

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