Yesterday while I was at work, my mother called and said that Daimean needs stitches. Now, my mom is sorta the Lady Who Cried Wolf so I tend to ignore a lot of what she says. She said he had a huge cut on his finger and that she could see the “meat” sticking out. He claimed he didn’t know how it happened, he just noticed it hurt. So I figured, Can’t be that bad then. Told her to put a band aid on it and I’d assess it when I get home.
Got home and saw the crazy tape job she did on his finger, told him to take that off so we could clean it and bandage it right. He takes it off and yowza – he’s got a hell of a cut on his finger. I ask him how it happened, he says emphatically, “I don’t know!” While there’s no “meat” sticking out, you can see the subcutaneous fat, which is a bit unnerving. Clean it, close it, Neosporin it, bandage it. Ask again how it happened. He sticks with his story that he doesn’t know.
I look my darling child in the eye and say, “You know you can tell me anything. So why aren’t you telling me the truth about this?”
He turns around and walks to his room. Climbs up on his bed and unwraps his Swiss army knife from a tangle of blankets where he’s hidden it. He said I could throw it away.
I explained that I’m not going to take it from him, but that it’s obviously not a toy. We got it for our camping trip. Not to play around flipping the blade open and closed. Which is how this happened.
THEN when I get the rest of the story it just breaks my heart. It had happened the night before, after bed time. He said he was flipping the blade, caught his finger, and panicked. Ran to the bathroom and ran water on it and used tissue to hold over it. Just thinking of him being too scared to get in trouble that he didn’t ask for help is awful. So we talked a LOT about it yesterday. Went over what could have happened. I made him promise that no matter WHAT happens, whether to him or anyone else, he must always come to me or his father for help. Part of our bedtime ritual is me asking him, “Who’s always on your side no matter what?” and his answer is You Are.
Not just words.
I’m careful to make sure that I don’t overreact when he tells me things, asks whack job questions, or does stupid things that can –and do- get people hurt. He’s a kid. It’s his job to find out how the world works, and it’s MY job to try to guide him through it with all of his digital appendages intact.