The kids make their own lunches, but I make their sandwiches (fresh!). Last year, they also made their own breakfasts, but now I make breakfast, since it gives me a tad of time with them before school.
One morning, I attempted to do too much. In addition to making breakfasts and lunches, I decided to hard-boil some eggs. I had French toast already cooking, so I filled up a pot with water. I walked across the kitchen with five eggs.
Oops! I dropped an egg on the floor. The dog was still asleep, so I left it there while I put in the remaining eggs to boil – and went back for a fifth egg. I turned on the heat and walked around the demolished egg for awhile.
With two burners going, I washed some grapes and put the (all natural! no caramel coloring!) syrup on the table. I finished Dylan’s French toast, put it on a plate and grabbed a fork. The water started to boil, so I pushed the pot off the heat and set a timer. Then I cleaned up the runny egg mess from the middle of the floor.
Dylan came downstairs as I was finishing on my hands and knees. He walked over to get a fork.
“I have a fork for you,” I told him. Now where did I put that fork? “Oh, here it is,” I said, reaching for it.
“HHHHHUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” I gasped in pain.
I’d somehow left the fork on the still-flaming-hot electric burner, where the boiling eggs had been only seconds before.
And then I’d tried to pick up the (stainless steel!) fork.
I’d burned the heck out of at least one finger, maybe more. The pain was so extreme, I didn’t know how many fingers were injured.
I raced for ice and started begging Dylan to do everything. I asked him to turn on the computer so I could find out what to do for a burn. I asked him to drain the water from the eggs when the timer started dinging.
Shane came downstairs in the middle of the hoopla. “Something’s wrong with my alarm,” he said. “The radio won’t go off and it says ‘0:59.'”
“Sorry Shane,” I said. “It sounds like you hit the sleep timer. It will go off when it gets to zero.” He wandered away.
I checked the internet. “Do not use ice,” it said. Oops. “Use cool running water until it the pain subsides.”
The pain did not subside.
Using a spatula, I carried the offending fork to the sink, where Dylan “killed it” with cold water.
“I want to make sure it never happens again,” he said. (This was my favorite moment of the morning.)
Dylan had three minutes to get out the door and I still hadn’t made his lunch. I painfully slopped peanut butter on bread and screeched at him to put it in a (reusable!) bag so I could get my fingers back into cool water.
Dylan finished making his lunch and raced out the door. Shane came downstairs and complained that his French toast was cold.
I was amazed that it was even cooked. I was soaking my fingers in a bowl of cool water, which I carried around while looking for aloe vera.
“Just put it in the microwave,” I told Shane. I explained the burn, whined a bit, and threw his lunch together with one hand while he ate.
Long story short, I have a minor, second-degree burn on one finger. And the kids got to school just fine.