I can speak of it now.

Friday night, all three kids in the bath-the usual nuthouse.  Splashing, screeching, singing. 

Georgia wanted out first, I sent her into the hallway and closed the door to get out the toothbrushes and I heard it. 

The noise that every mother fears.  The terrifying shriek of utter pain.  I knew before I opened the door what had happened.  Jon and I are constantly freaking out about doors and fingers.  "Don't play with the doors!" "Don't slam the door someones finger could be in there!" 

Mother of the year had just sliced off the sweet little pad of her baby's right pointer finger and it looked NASTY.  Please pass the crown.

I kept the vomit down, grabbed ice and a towel and feverishly hit the phone.  Urgent care?  Big sister?  Who do you call?  No one answered, so Jon and I calmed down, looked at her finger and decided we could handle it.  (This IS the same Sarah and Jon that brought Audrey to the emergency room when she was two.  She was discharged with a diagnoses of gas.  I think we are improving.)

The amazing thing was that Georgia cried and wanted to be held, but she was easily soothed.  She is my rock star when it comes to pain, she is drama in all other departments but this was nothing two binkis and a little snuggling couldn't cure.  Well it is Monday now and the girl is still milking it.  If anyone asks her what happened she tells the whole story but the only discernible word is "Mama"

It's okay, you can't wear the crown all the time.

Here is her little finger all bandaged up by Dr. Daddy.