But Wyatt, if you feel you must have this conversation with the neighbor dog, at 1:45 in the morning again, we are gonna have to throw down. And I promise... I will win.
Awwwww. I see you're tired this morning. WAKE UP!********************
The splinter I went to bed with... is still in my finger. I know it doesn't sound like much... and perspective would tell me, that people have endured and lived through, much more. But it's on my ring finger, and it's surprising how often you rub that finger around. Like I said last night, only Brett will understand the severity of the situation.
There are lots of things that Brett endures (and does so, with grace)... scrapes and scratches, hard labor, heavy lifting, the "dogs" flatulence... a whole number of things. But Brett does not handle splinters. A splinter will bring the world to a halt.
This has never been more apparent to me, than the day we moved into our house (the one we live in now). We didn't have a speck of furniture... not even toilet paper. But I recall, we did have paint samples. And two spatulas left behind from the previous tenants.
Anyway, we'd ordered Chinese food from HyVee (ya know... cause the suburbs of Kansas City are known for their ethnic food) and we're sitting on the steps of our deck, Chinese food spread out, paper napkins in our laps...when I got the mother of all splinters. I mean, that sucker was a good inch long (not an exaggeration) and was actually causing me to bleed. With deliberate calmness, I turned to Brett and said something like, "Aw man, I just got the mother of all splinters."
What Brett actually heard was, "For the love of all that is Holy, get it out! Get it out! I'm near death!"
Before I know it, without a word, he sprints into the house and begins ransacking (the EMPTY house): Paint chips are scattered and spatulas are flying. I think at one point, he threw the air mattress out the window... Later, I would be informed that he was looking for tweezers.
Meanwhile, I'm outside... putting lids on the food, gathering up the paper napkins and plastic utensils that had been tossed aside, bagging up the leftovers... all the while, thinking "What a jerk. Leaving me out here to clean up the mess when I've got a log sticking out of my hand." And when I entered the house, I said something to that effect.
His response, "I thought you were right behind me! There's a time to clean up the dinner dishes and then there's a time to take care of a splinter." *still wrought with exasperation*
Well. Next time I'll know.
I realize this story has nothing to do with what I've done today (which was the purpose of these journal-days) but it's just to say... that I wish Brett was here, to take care of my splinter. Cause this is one of those times.