Spilling Blood on Graduation Day

It always happens that when you are in a rush, you get sloppy about your business and end up getting into scrapes which take MORE time to get out of, making you not just a little late, but over-the-top late, miss-the-whole-damn-thing late. Which is why when I am late, I should remind myself to take a deep breath and take it easy. It saves time in the long run. Also saves a visit to the hospital

Like a wise man once said, "Those stumble who run fast." In my case, it was more like, "Those sustain knife wounds who slice bread in haste."

Last week, Seconda graduated from PreK. It was a glorious day, commemorated by a special moving up ceremony in her classroom, first thing in the am. Primo was also having his special Farewell-to-Second-Grade Class Breakfast on the same morning, just ten minutes earlier. There was a lot of shit to do - hair to braid,  lunches to pack, coffee to drink, babies to feed, fancy dress sashes to tie in bows. It didn't help that I got up late, being desperate to suck every last minute of sleep after a long night feeding and catering to Baby Bunting. And since it was Graduation Day, I had to do something which is not part of my normal morning routine, namely washing and grooming myself. So it was that I was running way, way late when I realized the Italian bread which Seconda likes in her lunchbox was not sliced.

Now, if there is one activity not to rush through in the morning, it is probably slicing bread with a large, serrated knife. Rush through your coffee or brushing your teeth or pouring milk in cereal but do not, I beg of you, rush through slicing bread. Because if you do, it is very possible that in addition to the bread, you will slice a large piece of your finger as well. Which is precisely what I did on Graduation Day.

"David," I gasped, applying pressure to my finger and staggering into the bathroom, "I need you in here. Now." I shot him the "I am bleeding profusely but don't say anything to the kids because you know how they get about blood, both titillated and terrified" look.

"You did a nice job of this," he said, "What the hell?"

"I feel like I'm going to faint," I told him.

"You're not going to faint," he replied oh-so-helpfully.

"WHY do we always have to have the same argument when I am going to faint?" I asked, finding the strength somehow to argue despite the dizzy feeling, "I have to lie down right now."

I hobbled over to the couch, squeezing a paper towel around my finger and that tipped the kids off and they crowded around, asking WHY the towel was red and OH MY GOD is that BLOOD? and LET ME SEE IT! and Oh Mommy I'm SCARED! and But can I see it AGAIN? and so on.

By the time my fainting spell had passed and I had stopped the bleeding and applied a bandaid we were woefully late. I grabbed the baby and we darted over to school, with three minutes remaining in Primo's Class Breakfast.

My dad, the doctor, came over later that night to check out my laceration.

"Nicole, you probably should have gotten stitches for that," he said, "That's a nasty cut."

"Let's go, then," I said, "Right now."

"Its twelve hours after the fact," he said, "Too late now."

So in the final analysis, I was a bit late to Sec's Graduation Day, woefully late to Primo's Class Breakfast but Irredeemably, Dealbreakingly Late to my Stitches in the ER appointment. Figures.