splintered

Another afternoon call home, another heavy discussion with a certain someone about troublesome goings-on at school. While trying to talk him through the latest peer drama, the youngest danced around my field of vision, waving arms and making faces, all in an attempt to capture my attention away from the phone call. We still had a few minutes until our bus would arrive, so I tried my best to ignore his antics and focus on the phone conversation. Until the screaming. And the finger shoved into my face. And the splinter that seemed so massive at first glance.

"I've got to go right now!" After touching the screen to hang up and slightly tossing the phone to the surface of the old, apparently splintering picnic table at which we sat, I did the first thing I could think of while my five year old screamed bloody murder. I put his finger tip to my mouth and grasped the splinter's edge with between my teeth, thankful that a good quarter inch of it stuck out. I wrenched it out in one good tug, through the frantic screams, and I immediately squeezed the site of the splinter with my thumb and finger. Using my other hand, somehow I got my bag onto my lap and opened, removed my mini first aid kit and got out a band-aid. I put it on as quickly as I could so that I could draw my little guy in for a hug. Of course, right at that moment, our bus showed up, so we needed to hustle our stuff together and head down to the sidewalk pronto.

I had hoped that would be the end of the great splinter experience for Pudge, but unfortunately upon closer inspection later in the evening, it was apparent that my expert removal skills were not completely successful. Imagine that. Further down from the hole where the splinter had made its entrance and exit, some small fragments were still visible under his skin. As soon as I saw it, I knew we were in for a rough experience.

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Sitting at my grandparents' kitchen table, held tightly by a parent, I remember first seeing the safety pin, its tip held in the flame of the lighter. The realization hit that my grandfather (who we called Pépère, the French-Canadian word for grandfather, even though we spelled it Pepe) was going to use that sharp thing to cut into my skin. I was sobbing because my skin had already been cut into by the splinter! Why in the world would they use something sharp to make it worse?! I screamed and cried, and I got shushed and told to act "like a big girl."

If I had developed my penchant for colorful language even earlier as a child, I would likely have been tempted to throw some choice words their way in response to their admonishments. Instead, I continued to scream even as Pepe's face got blustery red in frustration at my screams and my struggling.

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"I'm going to need you to hold him down."
Those words came out of my mouth, and I hated how they sounded, but I knew there was no way to get these splinter fragments out without physical restraint. As I went to gather necessary supplies, Hubby held him gently in his lap and began to tell him a cautionary tale of his own troubles with splinters as a child, specifically the time when he had a splinter that wasn't fully removed. His trip to the doctor and the shot that was involved were story elements meant to encourage Pudge to get calm for this wonderfully preventative experience he was about to have, but I knew that he couldn't hear anyone's words over the terror in his own mind.

I set up materials on the dining room table and we tried to get into positions that would allow Hubby to hold Pudge securely while I could access his fingertip without obstruction. It will never cease to amaze me how children can generate fright-fueled strength. It took me a full minute to even unclench his damn fist. I tried to tune out his screams while I assessed the job, knowing that Hubby was in comforting mode and I needed to focus on getting the wood bits out. My attempts at keeping the safety pin-- the dreaded safety pin-- out of his line of sight were thwarted by his refusal to look the other way. "WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH THAT THING?!" Those words alone punched me in the gut.

Having to actually break his skin apart, even just the tiny top layer, even just a little, while hearing him scream brought my own vivid memories to the front of my mind, and I hated being on the other side of the table in this experience. I hated the fact that I was physically hurting him in my efforts to help him. I knew that this was the best path for the problem, for it was still fresh and he had just gotten out of the shower, so his skin was even softened from the water. But that knowledge did little to soothe the feeling of hurting my little boy, and the tears that sprung into my eyes only clouded my vision when I needed to move quickly.

Somehow, he began to calm himself. Perhaps Hubby's calming words got through to him after all, but he stopped screaming, and popped his thumb in his mouth. That thumb that we're often shooing out of his mouth was quite welcomed by us at this point. The only words he said in the short time left of the experience-- "Did you get it all out yet, Mommy?" 

I'm not sure I could answer that with absolute certainty, but I believed that I had gotten enough out to make a difference. Within moments of putting on the peroxide, antibacterial ointment, and a new band-aid, Pudge was giggling over something, though the giggles abruptly switched to refreshed crying once or twice as he still worked through the emotionally draining experience.

A quick story time was provided by his big sister, for which this exhausted mama was extremely grateful, and then it was time for bed. I had little worry that he would have trouble falling asleep after the evening's activities.


Staying far away from old wooden picnic tables from now on,