(And will certainly inflict much heartache on his mother as he does).
This morning, while I lazily and stubbornly remained in my bed, before I was fully aware of the going-ons of the world, I heard a sound: "Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!" My sleepy little mind tried to process the sound, but gained little traction on the mystery. Then I heard it again: "Thwack!" "Hmm," I thought, "that sounds sort of odd...Hold on a second. I think I know that sound. It sounds like a knife on a glass cutting board. I should probably get up and investigate." Assuming Ruth, who has a passable set of knife and cooking skills, was putting together a fancy breakfast, I groggily made my made my way to the kitchen. Suddenly, I was wide awake. For who did I find happily hacking up a banana with a small chef's knife but my crazy, completely unchaperoned youngest child. Since this child has been able to talk, he has started his day with this sentence: "I want my beckbis." I guess this morning he just decided to get it himself. Fortunately, no fingers were lost in the making of this breakfast.
The morning progressed, and this child went outside to play, while Weston and I made our way through reading class. We were lying on my bed, reading "Baby Bunny," when a small, whining figure appeared at the door. Based on the sound of his cry, I expected he had stumped his toe or bumped his head and just wanted some acknowledgement of his suffering before skipping off to resume his play. However, when I looked up from the book, I was greeted with a bloody hand and arm. My heart did a flip-flop before I scooped the child up and rushed him into the bathroom for further examination. I found that he had sliced almost half-way down his pinky finger with an obviously sharp object. When I finally got the bleeding slowed down and the wound bandaged up, I asked him to show me the knife, thinking back to my first image of the morning. A trail of blood began just outside my bedroom door, but in my haste I failed to follow it strictly and veered off tot he kitchen, where I could find no evidence of a recently used knife of any kind. That's when Max told me the knife was outside. Sure enough, the blood trail led right out the back door and across the patio to a chair which held a box cutter. What?! Technically, it wasn't a knife, so perhaps my lecture from the morning had hit its mark and this was just something else to be examined. The cut was not severe, though the bleeding was impressive.
And if that weren't enough, after lunch, while I was administering a Spelling test to Ruth, the boys were playing in the living room, where I was sure no sharp objects lurked. But when I finished the test and started gathering up boys for naps, I found that Max had a bloody cut on his little toe. No explanation was offered for this little mishap, though I did ask several times. He simply didn't know what happened, and he didn't seem to understand what I was so fired up about. But, he was thrilled with the addition of yet another bandage.
I better see if I can get an appointment with a stylist soon, because the gray hairs are definitely multiplying. I'm afraid this child will be the death of me (and of himself)!