Christine, bless her heart, took it upon herself to save me from this embarrassing point. We’d only just finished the pizzas, when, as Marc was passing me his empty box, Pooplette decided to grab his knife, his very sharp, very pointy, HUGE pizza knife. Marc and I both went for it at the same time—an 18-month old with a pizza machete is a dangerous thing.
A very dangerous thing it turns out. She saw her father coming with that ‘I’m going to take your knife away’ look in his eye. She didn’t see me. But she stabbed me anyway—right under my index finger, palm side.
So our charming Saturday evening pizza dinner without dessert was saved before we even got to the point of me having to meekly admit I had no dessert—because Marc had to take me in to the emergency room…
…where we were told we’d have to wait ‘une petite heure’ before the Dr. could sew me up. ‘Une petite heure’ in Haute-Marne, should you ever need to know, means more like two hours and fifteen minutes. But I eventually got sewn up (two stitches) by the nice Syrian doctor who didn’t quite wait long enough for the local anesthetic to kick in before stitching my hand back together. I wonder if that’s because I told him I’m American…
So Pooplette has a new nickname, and me? You can just call me Claw.
I hope you are right handed! Now you have a story to torment your daughter with until she is an adult. "Remember that day you stabbed your mother?". Get well soon.