With 4 little boys and one grown man in the house, someone is getting injured at least once daily. There is just something about the boys’ disposition that requires them to be daring, bold, and (sometimes) a bit daft. Regardless of why or how they decide to do the things that results in stiches, blood, and ice packs, they do it. I, however, barely have the stomach for handling it all.
There are times when I wonder if it’s necessary for both my husband and I to be in the house at the same time. We both work from home, but never on the same projects. He prefers to work late and overnight, and I work earlier in the day. If there is ever an accident that requires first aid, however, any question of both of our necessity flies right out the window. I can’t handle blood.
It doesn’t matter if it’s a little cut, a puncture wound, or the more notable injuries that required medical glue, stitches, or sedation; I panic, get faint, and “leave it to Daddy.” The doting mother, I am not, and it’s common for me to respond to an injury with “Saaaaaaam! We neeeeeed you!”
2 of the 4 boys have noticeable scars on their faces from accidents that have happened in their young lives. Both times, I barely survived the ordeals. While the doctors worked dutifully to clean, seal, and cover the wounds, I sat in the corner of the hospital room on a chair, trembling and holding my stomach.
And so this is how it has been for all of their injuries, which, thankfully, have always occurred when Daddy is home. It’s as if God knows that I could in no way handle even the slightest injury that left blood on the floor and tears in the eyes of my children. My husband and I have made an agreement: He handles blood, and I handle all other bodily mess. I can wrangle the foulest diaper, just as long as the first aid kit is something I rarely have to touch.
Who does wound care at your house? Is it something you handle with professionalism? Or do you pass out at the sight (or even the thought) of blood?
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