The First Cut is the Deepest

Today while I was at work Rob contacted me on several occasions: the first to say hello, the second to tell me that Buggy had been flipping through a book and was pointing out images saying, "Wassat?" the way he does when he reads to her, and the third - oh, the third - to ask if we had any wound-wrapping material, Buggy's distressed cries audible in the background. My head started to spin as I tried to direct him to the roll of bandage in the bathroom closet. That poor girl had sliced the bottom of her big toe on a not-yet-discovered claw-shaped glass shard that protruded up from a wooden box near our dinging table. The thing was just waiting for someone to come round and step on it. Thank goodness it was only her toe; the injury could've been so much worse. Part of me - the mother part of me - felt frantic and wanted to be home to help take care of the crisis and comfort my child. Then the other part of me, the part that cannot stomach the sight of blood or even the thought of it, felt thankful that the situation was in Rob's capable and calm hands. By the time I walked through the front door she was on her feet (the injured foot in a sock), gingerly limping about, careful to avoid floor contact with the big toe). Kind of pitiful but kind of hilarious. The pain had clearly dwindled and she didn't seem bothered by it much, but before bed when we removed the bandage to dab a cotton ball soaked in tea tree oil onto the cut, heavens to Betsy did she howl! Inflicting such pain on her was more than I could handle. Don't think for one second that I was going to be getting at that toe with my camera - no siree. I'd like for it to heal up and be done with it, but I know, as my coworker Siena reminded me, that this would be the first of many, many similar incidents. I'm going to have to toughen up if I'm going to make it through anything else like this.