Question of the Day

How many full-grown adults does it take to hold down one five-year-old in order to remove a sliver from the ball of said five-year-old's foot?

Answer:

At least one more than we had.

The sliver in and of itself was small, and when first alerted to its presence in Medium's foot, I figured I could get it out quickly.

Hah.


I'm never going to be THAT stupid again.

By the time I was desperately calling Hubby's cell phone for the third time, and Medium was wailing like I was going to slit her throat, every flinch of her foot and toes had driven the thing in deeper, and now the only way that it was coming out was if I actually reached Hubby (by this time I was getting seriously annoyed), and told him to come home toot sweet.

And that's when I heard it.

The personalized ring tone that Hubby has set for me on his cell phone.

Which was in my purse.

Ten feet away from me, in the kitchen.

Nowhere near Hubby's office.

So I try calling the office several times, attempting to get through, only to get a busy signal every time.

No soap.

I settle for a desperate email, sent to both of his email addresses, demanding that he come home RIGHT NOW, because we had to get this sliver out, and there was no way I could do it myself.

Turns out, we probably needed another two or three people to hold her down.

I am not kidding.

Medium is a very stocky build.  At her checkup a couple weeks back, she weighed as many pounds as she was inches tall.  (My best friend commented that her middle son was once a "square," too.)

This is forty-two pounds of pure, raging fury.  And all of it's muscle.

Hubby is snarling, "Hold your foot still!"

Medium is wailing, "I am!"  And continues to squirm and flex her foot, shoving my hands out of the way with her other foot.

Hubby is retorting, "You're not!"

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I'm trying to wield the sterilized pin to get under the tiny sliver enough that I can use the tweezers to get it out, through all of this.  We both had to nearly lay on her, and she was still able to yank her foot around, flex her toes, and generally cause more trouble for herself.

I almost had the thing four times, but Medium would flex her foot, and it would get driven in under the skin again.

I was almost to the point of taking her to the ER and having her sedated so that we could get it out.

Yes, it was that bad.

I finally got it, and Medium was still screaming.  (She would scream when I wasn't even touching her, which did not help.)

Hubby summarily sent her down the hall to bed for a short nap.

She sniffled in there and whimpered, "I need a band-aid."

I was already getting her one.

As I sat on the floor and applied it to her foot, including a dab of antibiotic ointment (who knows what germs are on the 120+ year old wood floors in this house), she whimpered again, "Do you still love me?"

I smiled at her.  "Always.  I'll always love you.  Daddy will always love you, too."

I now have a killer headache.

And I no longer care about the humongous amount of work I have to do this week to be ready to move on Saturday.

The new house has carpeting.