I'd better put 9-1-1 on speed dial. Right away.

Today in the van, while getting a wet wipe out of the little container, mama's thumb got really stuck in the tiny hole. This is how it went down:

Mama: "KATIE!! MY THUMB IS STUCK!!! Aaaahhhhhhh! Get it out, get it... don't laugh, this hurts! Get it out... oh, that hurts! Oh, my poor thumb!! Stop laughing! oh, oh, oh!!!!!! oww, owww, it's stuck, ican'tgetitout! STOP!! you're just hurting!" (keeping up a continuous flood of yelling with a little bit of laughter thrown in; she couldn't help but see the humour of the situation)

And yes, I was laughing a little, in between trying to pull her thumb out without leaving the tip in, but I was trying hard not to. Finally, she wrenched it out, and her poor thumb was purple and red. She almost curled up in a corner and sucked it, but she stopped just short of that. (She did, however, talk to it, and tell it how sorry she was and what a good thumb it was.)

So, after a few minutes of thumb recuperation, she got out of the van to go in Kroger. She takes some trash to throw away in the garbage can in front of our van, and...

Her whole hand got stuck in the slot.

Yes.

No kidding.

She did a little pain dance, quietly shrieking and hopping around, clutching her hand, while I tried to be sympathetic.

Then. Yep, that's right, we're not finished.

She goes in, stays gone, comes back, limping slightly.

Me: "You okay?"

She: "I probably broke my foot. Just drive straight to the hospital." (she was semi-joking about that part)

Me: "What on earth did you do?"

She: "I dropped a can of rotel on my foot and nearly crushed it."

But the great thing was, she was way more concerned about her leather boot than her foot. Oh, I love my mama.