Spencer, here’s the thing. Sometimes stuff like this happens.
Just wanted you to know my perspective on it, in case it turns out it’s useful. And please don’t tell Mom I’m putting this online because it kinda grosses some people out, and she’s really sensitive to how other people feel, but I’m not as much (see my Catalog of Personality and Character Flaws, Volume III, Section 45, somewhere in the middle there).
I actually thought this through for a quick second. TJ was showing you his recently acquired knife skills. He was beaming. He gets to be the big brother. He knows something you don’t know. It feels good to be the teacher when you are only five. And you were the willing student. But here’s the thing—4 year old hands have no business with a heavy butcher’s knife (recently sharpened) and the reflexes on the extremities are no match for the short distance between the knife point and the top of your foot.
These calculations actually went through my head (OK, except for the reflexes part) as I turned away from you to put something in the cabinet. I had that feeling that something was wrong with this picture. But, I also had the thought that this was not a life-threatening emergency, and that probably nothing bad would happen, and even if it did, nobody would die. Part of me wants to avoid helicopter parenting, micro-managing your little life, preventing you from just being your charming little self. Part of me feels like a complete fool for not reaching down immediately and grabbing the metal snake by the throat and avoiding the whole business. Isn’t that what dads do?
But no time to pick sides because it all happened so fast that a first instinct is all I got. And first instincts really matter sometimes. And now while you sleep I’m thinking about how instincts work, and if we can change them, and why mine seem to be on vacation in the Bahamas until further notice, and if your angels have heard stories about me.
4 stitches. You’re already running again (7 days later). And all of your toes work. And you’re not dead. And I’m holding out the thought that it made you stronger. I know you are more grown up now. I saw it in your eyes a few days ago when I said you couldn’t take your shoes off because you had to protect your foot, that this was your responsibility, that this was serious. You looked deep into a place where boys consider maturity and wonder if that it could fit, given a few more inches. Later when you have to muster your manhood and face fear and corral courage this scar might come to mind.
(If Mom ever sees this on the blog, she’s taking it down. It’s too painful.)