It's A Very Serious Condition; Possibly Fatal, So It's Nothing Short Of A Miracle That I'm Posting Instead Of Hooked To An IV In A Hospital Somewhere

First of all, before I get started, I'd like to take a moment and wish my Aunt Sherry a Very Happy (number undisclosed) Birthday on Thursday, August 6th. I hope it's wonderful!!! I Wish I could be there to help you blow out the candles, but I'm missing my tiara and magic wand... which is cool if they wind up at your house, gift-wrapped by the universe as birthday presents. Otherwise, just have a piece of cake and send me the calories. I'm happy to take them for you. And just so I say it all public-like, thank you so much for being super-extra-awesome-and-wonderful to Jos during her visit. You were always such a blessing to me, thank you for paying it forward to my girl. You're awesome, and I love you!

*pause for authentic slight tear-up*

OK, now...

This week, I'm playing along with Mama Kat at Mama's Losin' It. Her weekly feature Your Assignment, Should You Choose To Accept It had a prompt that caught me this week: What's ailing you? Diagnose yourself with a syndrome. (inspired by Kimberly from Kamp KK) My mother, being a retired RN (that's registered nurse to y'all) I thought this would be fun...

Turns out, I'm one sick puppy... aside from mentally (I could hear every single person I ever met in my entire life my sister laughing-so-hard-she-snorted in my head as soon as I typed that and had to clarify!!) ...and I'm about to get a whole lot sicker, because...

I'm back here typing out my five-minute title to this post and I hear a blue streak that rivals one of mine. So my ears prick up (yes, Beavis, I said prick) cause it's gotten all quiet-like again except for what sounds like wires and such being moved. Then hubby comes flying in here like a man on a mission, grabs some things off of his mechanic's carts and swoops back out, nearly running over the munchkin (just call me shadow, Daddy) without so much as a backwards glance. So I get up to see who's life he's saving on our kitchen table because as far as I'm concerned, the only reason to mow down a toddler involves carotid arteries shooting blood all over my kitchen with the chief of police in the driveway, savvy?

So I whip out of the back room to see a pathetic black box with wires strung out from the AV system and a look of grave misgivings on hubby's face as he sits down to operate on his patient.

Uh-Huh. *eyeroll*

This is the emergency.

Shallow breathing and non-responsive pupils from the Playstation.

The Playstation that the toddler has taken to operating (properly, including game changes, might I add) without our help or supervision. Yes, y'all as of last Thursday, it is not my adorable bright-eyed-redhead slapping my arm saying, "MomMY! GeH UP!" but the soundtrack to MX vs. ATV games playing at Daddy-Loud-levels that wakes me up. Oh goodie, another gamer in the house. I'm so proud. fucking liar

And, now I understand completely. It's like when your best friend gets kinda soused at your BBQ and then runs over your beloved pet Sparky with the John Deere. You still love 'em, but you kind of can't look at 'em right now and you're trying to reserve your outburst cause you're not sure if Sparky is gonna live yet... it's like that with Hubby and the munchkin hunched over a black box on my kitchen table cause Boo still doesn't realize that Daddy thinks he's the reason Sparky the Playstation is in critical condition.

I say nothing, because I have a strong sense of survival like that and go back to my computer before he asks for my help, because let's face it, I hate Sparky. And while I'm not exactly reveling in the pain of it's possible death, I'm also not going to get roped into trying to help revive that time-sucking pain-in-my-ass either.

I know it's gotten really bad when he comes back into the computer room for a crash cart in the guise of an air compressor. Now, mind you, he's got the case off the game, and I can't, for all the tea in China, figure out what in the hell he needs the air compressor for, but again, I'm still wishing myself invisible during this *ahem* tragedy as he zips past me to perform CPR.

This is where I should have copped a fucking clue, but I totally sold my brain on eBay for gas money, so it didn't occur to me that he was going to do the compressor procedure outside, even though I couldn't hear it being used, so DUH, as in Homer Simpson and Peter Griffin's love child, Dumbass Griffson.

Cause next thing I know, here comes munchkin, holding his hand out to me. Not crying or whining or fussing. Just holding his hand out to me. I look down and his pointer finger is bleeding right in the center of the pad of his finger. He sees that I see the blood, and then he puts his thumb against it (spreading the bloodiness around for good measure) and starts saying, "Owwwww" as a few tears start and build up as I inspect the damage to now, a full blown cry. Aaaand now, as if on cue, here comes the blood for real. So I scoop up little bleeding man and off to the bathroom we head...

I'm one step into the living room, heading for the bathroom when, for some unknown mama-instinct reason, I look over and see the cause of the blood... Hubby's motherfuckingsharpassboxcuttingknife wide open. The one that he was so concerned about Sparky that he left in easy reaching distance on the kitchen table and neglected to specifically tell my dumb ass that he was going outside despite how obvious it was to anyone with two brain cells to rub together. Now, SPARKY MUST DIE AND HUBBY MIGHT NEED TO GO WITH IT. So I kick open the back door and spout some super-loud fuck you's parenting tips at hubby so that he could hear them over the compressor on my way into the bathroom with our much-more-important-than-a-fucking-video-game bleeding son... not that I'm wigging out now that I know what he damaged himself on... Nah, not at all.

I rinse and peroxide (which starts a whole new round of I'm-Dying-Mommy tears) and inspect the wound in between putting pressure on the finger with a towel ~ which, for you childless people, is way more difficult than it sounds. Picture trying to catch and hold an overfilled water balloon one handed and covered in Crisco. That kind of comes sort of close. Maybe.

I ascertain that he's basically tapped his finger against the sharp-pointy tip which, although I can't tell how deep the cut goes, is better than, say running his finger down the blade. Thankfully, despite the immediate disturbing mental picture of how bad it could have been, I can not see bone, nor is there blood coming from anywhere else. *sweatdrippingdownforehead* Disaster less massive than was possible... *deep breaths*

In my Mommy-insta-nurse-just-add-blood superhero costume I decide to put a band-aid on it. Except, have you ever tried to put a regular sized band-aid on a two-year-old finger? It's like using an ace-bandage for a sprained finger... you know it's gonna be waaaay too big from the second you start, but if you angle it like you're trying to do origami or some shit and stand on your head during a full moon, it might just work for a while until you can tell if it's a minor cut or if you're going for that wonderful thrill-ride of emergency room visit complete with explanation that won't get you arrested for child abuse on the spot.

OK, band-aid on. Munchkin bending finger to assure me that I didn't cut off circulation entirely to his finger with my creative bandaging. Tip of finger is not turning blue. We're good. Ten minutes later, munchkin can still waggle finger, tip is still not blue, and putting tip of finger to my lip, tip of finger is still not cold, ie: circulation still happening. Also, band-aid is not bled-through. Which is a good sign, but not good enough for me to stop rehearsing my emergency room recount of how munchkin came to be damaged in full view of two completely competent, loving parents. that's my story and I'm sticking to it

Half an hour later, the kid is fine, the finger is forgotten, and he's pulling out Harry Potter movies so he can decide between the Boo-version of Citizen Cane that is Sorcerer's Stone and Prisoner of Azkaban which is his Godfather Part Two... And, Yes, Virgina, there is a Santa Claus, cause Sparky. Is. Dead. *RenfieldLaughAsITwirlMySnidelyWhiplashMustache*

Except, now I have to deal with a hubby who is in Playstation withdrawals. I fully expect him to go to bed tonight at 7:12 pm. And by tomorrow, he'll be furiously hitting buttons on the game controller and making fake shooting noises at Dr. Phil and Oprah... but that's not the worst of it.

I've told y'all before that he's been cramping my computer-time-style... Yeah. I have a feeling that by Friday, I'll only be able to get on the computer from 4-6 am and only with prior written permission from a parent or guardian and possibly the Pope, or maybe the cheerleader from Heroes cause she's totally in his five so he might listen to her... and I need to consider sending Megan Fox an ape-load of tweets pleading my case so maybe she can get me some computer time too... in case the Pope and the cheerleader are busy...

Oh yeah, and that self-diagnosed disease of mine? It's Dumbass Griffson Sparky Mortality Gateway Inacessability Disease exacerbated by Spousal Pre-pubescence coinciding with the arrival of Florence.

So, as you can see, it's a very serious condition, although, to be honest, the IV I mentioned may contain Lithium and Valium.