Don't Tell Mom

I saw this meme on Facebook and had to steal it. I hate doing that; almost all of the pictures in my blog posts are ones that I've snapped at some point or another. But here we are. I give full credit to whoever came up with this one.

Sure, my sister Pat and I had our share of "don't tell Mom" stories. The time Pat shot herself in the foot with an arrow or the time I got a nosebleed playing "How high up the basement stairs are you willing to jump from to the cement floor below?"

But the times that I remember most are when I was minding my own business on many a summer afternoon, and Dad came in the house and grabbed me. He'd drag me into the bathroom, saying, "Don't tell Mom." Then he'd hold up his hand, wrapped with black electrician's tape securing a wad of paper towel to a finger, blood beginning to ooze through.  

I'd unwrap the wound and shove whatever was bleeding under a faucet running cold water. The sink quickly turned pink with the mix of water and blood.

Even though Mom worked at a doctor's office, she didn't stock the linen closet nearly as well as I did mine in my adult life. No Coban wraps, gauze rolls, or even decent medical tape. The only tape in any first aid kit back then was thick and unyielding, rolled on a metal ring in a metal case, which required Herculean strength to pop off. I could scrounge up a stiff piece of Telfa, but the antibiotic ointment was always expired. (But I must admit, my antibiotic ointment in my house now is always expired too.)

Whatever I managed to wrap him with, Dad was always satisfied and would sneak back out to his wood-working shop to see if he could cause any more damage.

Go figure that I ended up working in the medical field.