Okay, an actual entry—something I've been managing to avoid for lo these many long months. I'm not sure why.
What news, what news? Small news.
I was standing on the back deck in between rain showers watching Jim cut back bushes in the yard Friday afternoon, when his pruning shears attacked and he had to have five stitches in his left baby finger. They're bright blue. The Frankenfinger seems to be doing okay and isn't too painful but he has horse-sized antibiotics to take. We had a not-too-horrible wait at urgent care to have him seen to, and conveniently I could stop by the Clarion West office and we were near one of our favourite Thai restaurants and got dinner there, which reminded us why it's a favourite--so much better than any of the nearby ones.
Neither of us have ever had stitches before. For clumsy people, we're amazingly accident free. This just wouldn't stop bleeding, so we figured he was doomed to actually have to be see a medical professional and be sewn back together.
The rag he'd been holding around his finger came home in a bag marked "Biohazard." But we had to bring it home because it was one of our favourite rags, and you can't blame a rag for getting itself bled on.
I also thank the pruning shears for attacking now, and not waiting until, say, Clarion West was in session and I had two hundred other things to be doing. I also thank them for not, say, hitting an artery and actually trying to snip the finger off. For flesh-eating, blood-thirsty shears, they were quite restrained.
Titus can't bear to look at the next picture.
Jim salutes the world with stitches.
1. Yes, I know I'm weird for having favourite rags. I like 100% cotton ones. And I only have a couple of these ones--they're 26 years old and were once my sister's eldest son's diapers. Soft, absorbent, all those good things.