The Big Yellow House post for today got me to laughing and running at top speed down memory lane.
It all started with a discussion with M who was about 13, maybe 14 at the time. I don't even recall what it was about, probably chores that were left undone or some such 13-14 year old nonsense. What I can tell you, is that M was not happy with the outcome of this discussion and was making a grand exit which included slamming the door on his way out. The door didn't sound right when it slammed this time. I turned around to find M red faced, jumping up and down holding his hand. All together now: "OOOOOWWWWWWWW!". I managed to keep from laughing until later when he had iced the injury and gone out, (shutting the door quietly behind him), to take care of what he'd origionally set out to do. I raced to the phone to call his dad, who also had a good chuckle over the self-inflicted lesson on "Why we do not slam doors". I know. We sound awful, but once you have your very own teenager, you won't be judging this reaction so harshly.
Anyhow, as you might expect from such an injury, a large blood blister formed under the nail bed, creating considerable agony and really driving home that "Don't slam doors" message. My husband comes from tough stock, he has had many dining room surgeries and patch togethers on the sidelines, usually administered by his equally tough father. So when the complaining reached critical mass, the hubster decided that the boy had probably learned his lesson and offered to relieve the situation for him. He explained the process of drilling through the nail, promised it wouldn't hurt (much) and the boy happily went off in search of the Dremel tool. His brother E was never far behind in those days and was delighted by the prospect of seeing some blood. Especially since it wasn't him under the drill. Once the OR had been properly prepped, the victi...I mean, patient, offered up the offending appendage. At some point between the time he placed his finger on the counter, and the time the drill started up, he chickened out. The ensuing howl, levitation and chant of "No! NO! NO!" was impressive to behold. This time, the laughter couldn't be contained, the testosterone level in the room reached the boiling point, and I had to leave the room. Somehow, between their laughter and M's redoubled efforts to steel himself for the procedure, E and the hubster managed to hold the boy still enough to make contact with the drill and complete the operation, but that moment of dawning realization remains the stuff of family legend, and cemented M's place as "The Dramatic One". I'm not sure if it was the fear of the consequences, or the heckling from us all over the years, but I'm proud to report that to date, no teenager has dared slam a door in our house since that day.