My kids have no respect for what goes on in a kitchen. Apparently, when my middle child fell onto the open door of a hot oven when he was a toddler and miraculously didn’t get burned, it became part of family lore that…we just don’t get burned. Because there’s no other way to explain their insistence on chasing each other through our little kitchen or wrestling on the floor under my feet. (Well…there is another explanation, but I’m not calling my kids stupid!) Next to “Settle down!,” I think the most frequently repeated phrase in my house is, “Get out of my kitchen! Hot stuff on the stove!”.
Hopefully, what happened Friday night changed all of that. I slipped in the kitchen and instinctively caught myself…by putting my palm down on a hot burner. Bearing my full weight. (Pic to follow…stop now if you’re easily grossed out.) Talk about pain! After four hours on an ice pack, the pain was only getting worse, so I gave in and went to the ER. You know it’s bad when the doctors and nurses are shocked. I’m glad I went, because I ended up with a tetanus shot, two shots of Dilaudid, a scrip for antibiotics, and a scrip for Lortab. And the worst-looking blister I’ve ever seen in my life. I learned later that you should go to the ER for any second-degree burn that’s over three inches or is on your hand…I qualified on both counts.
The boys are fascinated, but my daughter doesn’t even want to be in the same room with me unless it’s bandaged. We moms always talk about how we wish we could take the pain for our kids. Maybe, this time, I did. My kids now respect the burn.