mothering the (clumsy) woman

It was a "ten thousand things had to be done today, and had to be done *NOW*... every task is urgent, really urgent, or immediately needed... no time to plan, no time to prepare... Time's a-wasting, can't you speed this up?" kind of a week at work and I was at the ebb of my energy and patience. Two good reasons to just sit back when I reach home, maybe order some pizza, and retire early to bed.

Two good reasons ignored and consequences suffered...

Frazzled from a strenuous work day, I attempted to cook a meal for the family - afterall,
Baby needs proteins and such,
dinner is the only meal we manage to eat together,
what kind of a mother and wife would I be if I didn't even do this for my loved ones...

so went my many rationalizations, none of which included,
put your oxygen mask on first before you help put others' on.

Well, what with Ana screaming and running back and forth through the open kitchen, and me trying to unload the clean dishes and reload the dishwasher, I got a little careless, a little clumsy, and let the 1½ cups of 375°F hot oil balanced precariously on a round-bottomed pan over open flame of my gas stove splash on my hand. My right hand, to be precise. All over the back of my right hand and a little on my wrist.

I screamed just as if I was about to birth my next baby. D, out gardening, didn't hear the first few shrieks. But, Ana did. Rooted to her spot not 5 feet away, in the nook by the open kitchen.

Common Sense and Instinct took possession of my faculties for the next few minutes, somehow the stove was turned off and the water was running in the kitchen sink rinsing the sizzling oil off my seared skin by the time D hurried in to assess the damage.

I could hear his thoughts: Baby is safe. Good. Not a sign of injury on the wee tot. Good. Let's look at your hand now... hmmm... seems bad. You'll probably just blister and regrow your skin. Nothing permanent, maybe a dull scar. Leave it under running water while I figure out how best to help you...

All he said was, "It's OK, perhaps a shot of berry vodka would take the edge off, let me bring you some..." and he was off to the bar downstairs leaving me with my straying thoughts about how much worse it could have been... and my rapturous heart kissing God's feet, grateful that my ineptitude did not scar my precious...

When I slowly resurfaced and my shrieks had died down to stifled moans, I spotted Ana still transfixed, watching intently. The minute we established eye-contact, she came running straight into my leg, hugged it with her chubby baby arms and repeated soothingly, "Amma's OK.. Amma's OK..."

Yes, indeed, Amma's OK, my ministering baby doll, because *you* are OK.