Hot Glue Gun, Meet My Finger.

In case you didn’t know – CRAFTING IS DANGEROUS!

There I was, just standing at the kitchen counter with my hot glue gun in hand, practicing on some rolled fabric rosettes for an upcoming project when a huge glob of wet glue made contact with the underside of my finger. Don’t ask me how it happened because I have no idea. But as soon as the hot glue made contact I flung the gun on the counter and screamed out a slew of expletives while I rubbed my finger on my sweat pants trying to get that damn glue off my skin.

Hearing all the commotion, the Mister sprang into action and thrust my hand under the faucet. All the while I was screaming and crying like a little baby.


“I know…I know…” he replied, softly rubbing my back as I cried into my arm and smeared mascara all over my face.

I stood hunched over the kitchen sink, crying and moaning, while my finger felt like it was literally ON FIRE even through the cool steady steam of water. Every time I thought I was OK and tried to take my hand out of the water, the fire came rushing back.

I tried to block out the pain and not act like a toddler, but it was no use. I gave in and put on my best pouty face. All I could think about was being “too busy to be hurt!” and that I have “too many things to do!”. He just smiled and shook his head, probably trying to contain his laughter. A smart man knows when it’s too soon to laugh.

Betsy Crocker - Burned Finger

Instead, he ran outside and cut some fresh aloe, pulled the gauze out from the unorganized hallway closet, and wrapped my finger with such care (even though I was yelling at him to MOVE FASTER! And to NOT PRESS SO HARD!) and in that moment I was so thankful he was there. If he hadn’t been, I would’ve surely overreacted and called 911 or something. That’s not to say I didn’t ask…

“Are you SURE I don’t need to go to the hospital?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

My skin was literally melted and smooshed over to one side and he didn’t even flinch. It may have something to do with the fact that his day job involves standing around in surgery looking at far more disgusting things than my mangled finger but either way, he just never panics. It’s one of the things I love most about him. And it’s not just with blood and guts either. No matter what is going on, he’s as cool as can be. Me on the other hand, I just go straight into panic mode and can’t think straight as the anxiety builds in my chest. He’s always telling me to “calm down” and “relax”. I should probably listen to him, but that would be the easy thing to do.

After all was said and done my still burning finger was tenderly wrapped in gauze and I clutched it to my chest, pouty face still in place. He bent down and kissed me on the forehead and told me I was “damn tough” even though my eyes were red and my cheeks were streaked with black tears. I couldn’t help but think about our future and the kids that will inevitably come with scraped elbows and bloody knees, that will endure fevers and stomach viruses, and while I’ll probably still panic I’m glad that through it all I will have my calm and collective man right by my side.

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