Sunday: My hands have dried out. Badly. To the point where I have developed a large crack on the right thumb. It bleeds, then dries, then bleeds again.
Monday: Whilst draining perogies, I fail to predict the path the boiling water will take. I scald myself at the base of the left index finger. More than 20 seconds off ice makes it hurt so bad I go snaky. I find some old Tylenol 3s leftover from dear daughter’s birth a year and a half ago. I am finally able to sleep. The next morning, the whole hand feels strained, tired.
Tuesday: Within 20 minutes of each other, my children both “accidentally” assault my hands. The boy takes the left one out, with a piece of dowling. The girl is more subtle, and simply drops The Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on the right hand. I cry as silently as possible.
Today: I am attempting to make fast food “baby-sized” at the food court of a mall. As I tear apart a rather innocuous looking chicken nugget, I am rewarded with a rush of steam which removes all sensation from my fingertips. Then, sensation returns in the form of searing/throbbing pain.
I am sure there is some deeper meaning to all of this drama surrounding my hands.
I don’t know what it is.