My mom's hands have been scarred as long as I can remember. Nothing big, just dozens of tiny scars scattered across the backs of her hands. (They show better on the backs.) At any given time she had at least one cut, burn, scrape, or some other wound in varying stages of healing. And whenever I would ask what had happened, or how she got a particular scar, she would frequently (and honestly) reply, "I don't remember."
As a child, I found that hard to believe. A) that she could have injured herself so. many. times., and B) that she could have FORGOTTEN what had happened, sometimes even before the wound had healed.
But now that I'm a mom, with a kitchen of my own, I find myself following in her footsteps. I have 2 parallel burn scars on my left forearm, no how that happened. A mostly healed burn on the inside of my left wrist, from making popcorn. Burn scar on the back of my left hand near my thumb; no idea. A burn scar (those seem to be my injury of choice, but I think that's just because they scar better) on the inside of my right wrist; I remember it was hot oil, but can't tell you more than that. Burn scar on the knuckle of my right ring finger; no idea. Various knicks, cuts, and scrapes sprinkled here and there, most of which I would be hard pressed to list any cause.
But there is one finger that I've apparently had particular malice for of late. My right middle finger. First, I zested a fair amount of skin off the upper knuckle. It hurt like the dickens and bled a bit, but it was fine. Before that finished healing, however, I was trying to pick up a chunk of concrete in the backyard and it rolled and crunched the same knuckle, skinning it and causing more pain and more bleeding. Not more than two days later (yesterday), I sliced the inside of the SAME knuckle on my dough scraper, trying to reach around it in the drawer.
When I was still bleeding heavily more than 10 minutes later, I figured I should probably get it looked at. I knew if I just tried to bandage it up it would keep pulling open, so I called a friend to come and stay with my kiddos (bless her) and drove myself to urgent care.
After waiting nearly two hours (!) (and calling to arrange an alternate ride home for Ella), the doctor on duty agreed that stitching it up was the way to go.
Three stitches (and one lovely bout of nausea-lightheaded-wooziness) later and I was on my way.
And now I can't do the dishes for a week. It's a good thing Tom is a good sport.