In that post, I included this picture.
It seems as though you aren’t going to let me get away with just showing you the aftermath, and have also
demanded asked that I explain myself.
So I will, but no judgment, ok?
Last March, when I was pregnant and admittedly hormonal, I stood at the back door and watched my husband tending to our dogs.
Two of the dogs were playing with a toy, and decided they no longer wanted to share, so they snarked at each other.
My husband got in the middle of them, but they were being total assholes that day and didn’t want to let it go, so they continued to bicker around him.
Now, a few months earlier, we had gotten burglarized and I had insisted on the purchase of two kick bars that we could use to block the doors from being opened. Eventually, my fear of getting robbed again was overtaken by my laziness in setting the bars in place, so they’d taken up residence on the floor next to the kitchen wall.
Worried that my husband was going to get bitten by these rotten dogs growling “Come at me, bro,” while they darted in and around his legs, locked in a bitchy slap fight over a freaking $2 piece of rubber, I picked up a metal bar and headed outside.
I fully intended to poke at the moronic mongrels until they came to their senses, but I didn’t need to, as my husband had collared them both and was griping at them as they sat shamefacedly before him.
As he lectured them about how they’d embarrassed and disappointed him, I began to get bored. (In my defense, he’s rather long winded when he’s delivering an ass chewing, and it tends to become tedious.)
So, I began to swing the pole around like a ninja with a…oh hell, what are those things called?
Yeah, so anyway, I’m a ninja with a pole, and I’m swinging it around super skillfully. I turn around in an awesome move, surprisingly agile what with my big belly, and I feel the pole connect with something.
Something taller than me.
“Oh shit,” I remember thinking. “I’ve knocked out his teeth. He’s going to kill me.”
Terrified, I whirl around to see what I hit.
My husband is standing there and his face is missing, completely obscured by a fast-flowing red waterfall.
I began to freak out while he’s just standing there quietly wondering why his hands are all bloody, and drag him inside to put a wet towel on his face so we can investigate the source of the, um, leak.
I was picturing hours of painful dental work, thinking that I may have earned myself a place out back in the doghouse next to our pissy pups, so I was kind of relieved to see that I’d only cut his eyebrow.
Only, as in it was hanging over his eye.
The circular edge of the metal pole had left a crescent moon cut that created a fallen flap of skin, revealing some pretty gross stuff up in there. (On the plus side, at least I know my husband is not an android. So there’s that.)
I tried to push the skin back up, but it was obvious he was going to need stitches. Which is awesome, since he hates needles.
Anyway, I put him in the car and we head over to the ER, which is five minutes down the road, and embarrassingly enough, a place we tend to frequent.
We walk in, tell them about his injury, and they call him back. But they won’t let me go with him.
I’m confused at this point. I always go back with him. That time with the chest pains? I went back. That time he slipped and fell and hit his head on the concrete beside the house? I went back.
Why wouldn’t they let me go back?
My question was answered about five minutes later when my husband stepped back out into the lobby to get me.
He confessed that as the nurses were taking his vitals, they had questioned him about the injury.
“Did she hit you?” they asked.
“Yes,” he said. “But it was an accident.”
“Do you have these ‘accidents’ often?” they inquired.
You can imagine how mortified I was at this point. Ok, yes, I’d broken a few plates during this pregnancy, and ok, so the crack in the bathroom door was from where I kicked it, but c’mon, people! I’ve never hit my husband on purpose!
In a thankfully anticlimactic finish, we go on back and eventually they get him all stitched up (notice how I’m skipping the part about how he acted like a toddler getting immunizations here, that’s cause I’m a good wife) and send us home.
The funniest part of all of this, at least for me, was after I told my students what had happened, two of them got together and drew this for me as part of an assignment.
There were no funny parts for him. For the next few weeks, he got to sport a stylish black eye with his stitches.
Best Easter picture EVER.
See? You can’t even see the scar unless you’re really close.
Not that close. Back up off my husband. I have a pole…