It's my fault, really.
I should've known better than to try out a level of domesticity that we had not previously achieved in our three years of wedded bliss.
We made lunch at home on Sunday.
I sliced up tomatoes and arranged them on two sandwiches, one for me and one for my mom who was on her way over to assist with some curtain hanging.
"Can I help you clean your knife?" Harry asked sweetly and picked up my tomato-laden knife.
"Sure, babycakes, that'd be great!" I said and laid out the plates on the table.
"Is your mom on her way ov-Aaaaaaaaaagh!" Cuss words flew through the air with the greatest of ease as Harry grabbed his injured thumb.
I didn't look - I simply went to the cabinet and removed peroxide and band-aids. Walking over to Harry standing with his hand under the water - I swooned.
Too much BLOOOOOOOD!
I don't do well with blood. Nope.
I made him wrap it in a paper towel and wait for Mom to get there. She's motherly and stuff - she'll know what to do with a gushing flesh wound, I thought to myself.
She came in and tended to my hubby's wound while I sat down at the table and tried not to wretch over my ham sandwich.
Later, with nine working fingers, my hubby manages to hang three sets of curtains and rewire the entire downstairs tv room including the readjusting and repositioning of six speakers, one tv, a 500 disc dvd changer, a dvd player, a vcr of ancient origin, a receiver and a cable box.
He's a keeper.
Even with nine fingers.
oh- and he totally fixed the washer!