S is for Splinter

S got a splinter yesterday. A big, wicked splinter in her right index finger. After much crying and arguing last night, Kristy was unable to extract the offending matter. Unable, in fact, to get near the digit. When I arrived home from work this evening, S showed me her finger with the splinter still in it, not so much upset about it as proud. Like some sort of tiny, wooden badge of honor underneath her skin. And then I made what was perhaps a poor parenting decision when I instructed her to go to the cigar box where I dump all my pocket things at the end of each day and bring me my knife and lighter and then bring the bourbon, the cheap bourbon. And she did it. She brought my pocket knife and Zippo to me, but no bourbon, we’re not a bourbon-drinking family. She brought these things to me, handing them over with all the trust of a 4-year-old, and asked what I was going to do with them. “The lighter is to sterilize the blade, and then I’m going to take your finger off at that knuckle right there, just below the splinter.” She ran away from me. I was only joking, of course, but I’m worried now that the little shard may be with her for quite some time. In my defense, I never claimed to be a doctor of any sort to these kids. I’m just a guy with a knife and the sense of humor to use it.