FeaturesFebruary 28, 2010
No stairs or sharp objects, please
Husband-and-wife journalists Bob Miller and Callie Clark Miller use this space to offer their views on everyday issues. It's only been the last few years that I've considered myself clumsy. In my younger days, I only broke one bone and only needed stitches two times. Two of these incidents were sports-related. The other came when I was a toddler running from my mother...
Husband-and-wife journalists Bob Miller and Callie Clark Miller use this space to offer their views on everyday issues.
HE SAID
It's only been the last few years that I've considered myself clumsy.
In my younger days, I only broke one bone and only needed stitches two times. Two of these incidents were sports-related. The other came when I was a toddler running from my mother.
Mind you, no one would ever call me graceful. But I had good balance and good hand-eye coordination throughout my childhood, teen and young adult years.
I'm not sure when and where it all went wrong. Now I can't seem to get out of my own way.
This has been something of an inside joke with my family. My cute and talented wife still hasn't let me off the hook for cutting myself with a knife while on a double date before we were married. I was haphazardly cutting a roll inside a restaurant when I ignored Callie's warning and scraped my hand against the blade. Nothing serious, but it drew blood and Callie insisted on embarrassing me by asking the server to bring me a bandage.
More recently I've taken to falling down the stairs. I did this the first time more than a year ago when I fell with Dawson in my arms. It was only three steps, but I went down hard, protecting the little guy on the way down.
It happened again a few weeks ago, only this time I wasn't holding a baby. It's amazing how fast something like that happens. One second your putting your foot down, the next you're dropping like a boulder into a truck in one of those pickup commercials. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Four steps this time. I was able to stop myself on the second-to-last step. I got a few bruises. I stupidly told my cute and talented wife about the ordeal. Now I'm more or less known as the Stair Master around my house.
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But the tables turned just two weeks ago, and Callie can no longer tease me about the Great Restaurant Knife Incident of five-plus years ago. I'll let Callie tell you about the ordeal. But let's just say it started when my dainty wife decided to cut the cheese.
SHE SAID
The six stitches I got to hold my thumb back together a few weeks ago were entirely Bob's fault. He's the one who bought me the new super deluxe chef's knife set for Christmas. He'll say I asked for it -- and I did -- but really, it's like shoving me outside while it's raining and expecting me to not get wet.
Of course I'm going to cut myself; I'm not a super deluxe chef. Secondly, I sliced open my thumb while trying to cook dinner for him. If it wasn't for Bob and the boys, I'd live off grilled cheese and ice cream, neither of which requires a super deluxe chef's knife to make.
I've never broken a bone, or needed stitches outside of a medical procedure, so this slicing open of a finger was a revelation to me.
It was slow motion, with me pausing after it happened to see if I was going to vomit or pass out or go into hysterics, none of which actually happened. I called Bob, then the baby sitter, applied a cold pack, elevated my hand, picked up a fussy Eli and waited for help to arrive.
All of the doctors and nurses at the emergency room were sufficiently impressed with my handy work. Lots of "wows" and "you-really-did-a-number-on-its" when the paper towel I'd wrapped around my thumb was removed -- none of which made me feel any better when the doctor started poking and prodding at it, then proceeded to stick a small needle all around and in the cut to numb my thumb before stitching me up. I looked over, and there was Bob, texting away on his phone. I found out later he'd actually been posting the whole ordeal on Facebook while I was suffering in a hospital bed.
So you can expect me to post far and wide a photo the next time Bob coasts down the stairs on his backside. If my thumb's working well enough to snap the camera, that is.
Callie Clark Miller is a special publications writer for the Southeast Missourian. She uses her other thumb to hit the space bar. Bob Miller is Southeast Missourian editor who has never fallen down the stairs into the newsroom. Reach them at cmiller@semissourian.com and bmiller@semissourian.com.
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