Another Example of the Surprising Wisdom of Children
I kept our girl home from school today given that she spiked a fever last night after 12 or so hours "in the clear." When she awoke this morning at 98.6 F, I was tempted to ignore her day care's 24-hours-fever-free policy, but realizing that it's in the best interest of everyone, I reluctantly adhered to it.
Still, I had work to do, so I put in a video under the guise of "allowing her to rest" so that I could do some copyediting. After a few episodes of Little People, we drove to my office, where I spoke briefly with our intern and parked my girl on my chair as I shoved a couple of files into my tote bag. Needing a paper clip for some documents I was gathering, I opened the desk drawer, much to the youngster's amazement. So many interesting things to see! Scissors! Post-It Notes!
She messed around in there as I continued to shove about four times the work I would actually do in the afternoon into my satchel. Just as I was finishing up, I stood to hear a dulled slamming of the desk drawer--and to see that the slam had been dulled by two fingers of her right hand. Her mouth was frozen open, poised for the blood-curdling scream that is always delayed proportionately to the degree of pain in which the young lass finds herself.
Two things registered in my mind, almost simultaneously: Get digits out of drawer. Remove child from small room where colleague is conducting phone interview for story.
I carried her out to the lobby, where she let loose for all she was worth. The flesh beneath two of her fingernails was purple, and her face was approaching the same hue. I looked up to see all my co-workers within my line of vision agape and staring--and when I caught their eye, they quickly looked down and pretended that this was the least interesting thing that had happened that morning. And on she wailed.
It will be no surprise that she fell asleep during the drive home...and that, as a result of her in-transit snooze, she of course didn't even take the nap that I was relying on to do all the work that I had just picked up.
When I carried a tray of grilled cheese sandwiches into my bedroom where I'd plopped her with an ice pack while I made lunch, she smiled for the first time since the incident. Though she still wouldn't let me so much as look at her fingers, she did let me (and the puppy she was holding) kiss her wrist and her hand. After we had done so, I looked in her eyes and said, "I'm so sorry about your fingers, honey."
And she said, "But it wasn't your fault, Mommy. It was kind of me who did it."
Thank goodness she understands what an apology is supposed to be. Now if only I can change my ways before she picks up my passive, diluted version thereof.
Still, I had work to do, so I put in a video under the guise of "allowing her to rest" so that I could do some copyediting. After a few episodes of Little People, we drove to my office, where I spoke briefly with our intern and parked my girl on my chair as I shoved a couple of files into my tote bag. Needing a paper clip for some documents I was gathering, I opened the desk drawer, much to the youngster's amazement. So many interesting things to see! Scissors! Post-It Notes!
She messed around in there as I continued to shove about four times the work I would actually do in the afternoon into my satchel. Just as I was finishing up, I stood to hear a dulled slamming of the desk drawer--and to see that the slam had been dulled by two fingers of her right hand. Her mouth was frozen open, poised for the blood-curdling scream that is always delayed proportionately to the degree of pain in which the young lass finds herself.
Two things registered in my mind, almost simultaneously: Get digits out of drawer. Remove child from small room where colleague is conducting phone interview for story.
I carried her out to the lobby, where she let loose for all she was worth. The flesh beneath two of her fingernails was purple, and her face was approaching the same hue. I looked up to see all my co-workers within my line of vision agape and staring--and when I caught their eye, they quickly looked down and pretended that this was the least interesting thing that had happened that morning. And on she wailed.
It will be no surprise that she fell asleep during the drive home...and that, as a result of her in-transit snooze, she of course didn't even take the nap that I was relying on to do all the work that I had just picked up.
When I carried a tray of grilled cheese sandwiches into my bedroom where I'd plopped her with an ice pack while I made lunch, she smiled for the first time since the incident. Though she still wouldn't let me so much as look at her fingers, she did let me (and the puppy she was holding) kiss her wrist and her hand. After we had done so, I looked in her eyes and said, "I'm so sorry about your fingers, honey."
And she said, "But it wasn't your fault, Mommy. It was kind of me who did it."
Thank goodness she understands what an apology is supposed to be. Now if only I can change my ways before she picks up my passive, diluted version thereof.
posted by Lisa Strandberg at 8:17 PM
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