The Good Stuff

Six-year-old kids can really surprise you sometimes. They can be sweet, innocent and oblivious one moment, and totally conniving the next. My son got me into a predicament the other night, right at bed time.

My wife and I did the usual excruciating routine, begging the boy to put his pajamas on, then brush his teeth and pee. Then he climbed into his bed and started kicking around every time I put the covers on him.

"Hey dad, did you tell mom about your finger?"

"What about your finger?" my wife asked.

"He super-glued it!"

"What?" my wife exclaimed,"You did what?"

"He super-glued a cut on his finger," Joey clarified.

"No you didn't," my wife frowned, "You can't be serious."

It's true, I cut my finger on a project I'm working on. I'm attempting to finish my basement. Instead of using the traditional nails to frame out the walls, I'm using long screws, and one of them pierced my finger tip. Nothing too deep, but fingers bleed like crazy, I had a million things to do that day, I hate band-aids, and the super glue was sitting so close by. But yeah, of course it was a dumb decision.

"Let me see your finger!" my wife yelled.

I showed her my left pointer finger-- a hard, bumpy, white, translucent shell with a wall of black coagulated blood beneath.

"What were you thinking!" she exclaimed, "You can't do that!"

"Dad says he read online that they do it in hospitals," Joey grinned.

"Yes, but that's hospital grade, sterile glue," my wife said, "Your random glue could be filled with bacteria."

"It was a new tube," I whimpered.

"What did you cut it on?" she asked, "What are you working on?"

"Dad is fixing up the basement," Joey said, "He's done a ton of stuff down there."

"What?!" my wife said, "What are you doing in the basement?"

I had mentioned a finishing of the basement project before, but not in great detail. Now suddenly I was being peppered by wife questions. She was getting upset, and I was trying not to blush. She asked about the finger, the basement, and if there is anything else idiotic that she should know about. This moment really sucked for me. Then I looked at Joey.

The boy was lying on his back, stretched out, elbows bent, with his hands behind his head, and a huge grin.

"Ah yes," Joey waxed, "This is the good stuff."

What? The little shit. Now that made me laugh. It was a partially forced laugh, since I was still being interrogated.

"You set me up, Joey," I said, "Thanks a lot."

"What's going on in here?" my daughter entered, "Are you telling on Dad, Joey? That's not very nice, tattle tale."

I gave my daughter a big hug. At least I still have one ally. And my finger is healing nicely, thank you very much.