Poor Chuck

So last night Chuck finally did something that is worthy of a post all to himself.

The sweet man made me dinner last night (no that isn't worthy of a post - but it is unusual). He grilled some pork chops with serious freezer burn and he made some fresh green beans from a can. It was actually quite tasty despite the freezer burn and the canned beans. We enjoyed our dinner together and then Chuck cleaned up while I gave the kids a bath and put them to bed. We then settled in for some tivo'd Monday night sitcoms (I LOVE Big Bang Theory!). At about 10:30 we took our old parental selves up to the bedroom to rest our bones, but as we turned out the lights downstairs, Chuck gathered up some trash and placed it in the kitchen trash can and I turned off lights in the den. As I was gathering my stuff and waddling around, I heard a string of expletives come from the kitchen in a panicked voice. "What the Filth-Flam?! Did you Filth Flaming put a filthing knife in the trash? G** D***! What the F***?! Son of a B****!" You name it, he said it. Well, of course, I ran into the kitchen to find out what was going on. My addrenaline was racing. I had no idea what had happened, but I was certain that the house was on fire or the cat was dead in the kitchen or Chuck had severed an artery some how. I was ready to call the paramedics or any other emergency rescue crew to remedy what had happened. I got into the kitchen and Chuck was rushing around, still flinging smaller curse words as he alternated sucking on his finger and putting pressure on it with a paper towel. At this point, it became clear that he had simply cut himself (nothing on fire, no one dead on the kitchen floor) and now I just needed to determine the extent of his pain and injury. He rushed over and turned on the light switch to figure out what had cut him. To his mighty surprise there was not a knife sticking up out of the trash can, but instead there was a green bean can and the severed lid to the green bean can sticking up out of the top of the trash can. Releif surged through me when I realized that he probably had not severed an artery on the green bean can, and I was not seeing enough blood spurting forth from his hand to indicate that he had been so injured that he would need stitches or a trip to the emergency room. With the disaster averted and while Chuck continued to gripe about how much it hurt and how sharp the green bean can was, I returned to my nightly bedtime duties and gathered the kids shoes, etc. and began making my way upstairs telling Chuck that I thought there were bandaids up stairs. When I got to our bathroom, Chuck was already trying to apply a bandaid to his still bleeding finger and I finally got a chance to get a good look at the mauled finger.

Turns out that it was just a cut about a half an inch long (and I'm being generous). It wasn't even that deep, but by the way Chuck reacted to the cut you would have though someone had taken a machette to his finger and severed the bone. I let out a laugh and said, "That's it?! I mean, I'm sure it hurts, but I was expecting something a lot worse." He sheepishly admitted that it was just "a paper cut on steroids." I'm not sure it even reaches that level of a cut, but I'll have to give him the benefit of the doubt since I've never seen him overreact to something like this before. I mean, he's got scars on his legs from where he missed with an ax during cut for A&M bonfire, or where he had this massive bicycle wreck in college and landed in the hospital for several days, or some of the injuries he brings home from basketball, and I've never heard him complain like he did with this little, teeny, weeny cut. I swear, if a Labor and Delivery nurse had witnessed his reaction, she would have laughed him out of the building.

So, big boy Chuck apologized quickly for jumping to the immediate conclusion that his innocent, presumably thoughtless, pregnant wife somehow put a knife in the garbage can with the blade pointing up so that someone would cut themselves when they threw their trash away. Additionally, that his sweet, kind wife would have found time to put a knife the in the trash can between the time that he cleaned the kitchen and then when he went to throw away the trash before bed. Poor baby Chuck