I just wanted to go to church on time.

Or at all, because the past three weeks I haven’t made it (due to adolescent angst). (Not mine.)

So I made to get up and get going with plenty of time to get to church by 11:00. I put the pork roast in the microwave to defrost, and then I made French toast and got everyone started on getting ready for church. Then I printed out the announcements for relief society and started to get myself ready.

Then I remembered I hadn’t put the pork in the crock pot.

So I hurried to dry off and get dressed. I gave Kendell his marching orders: he needed to take the boys to church, I’d put the pork together and then meet them over there.

I’d be a few minutes late, true. But better than not going, right?

So I start the sauce (toss the Rotel tomatoes in the blender, then mix with some brown sugar and Dr. Pepper) and open the microwave, and yes: the microwave has done its special thing, which is stop half way through the defrost time so you can turn the meat. Only I didn’t notice it had stopped because I was in the bath.

Which means it’s only partly defrosted.

And this is a big pork roast (I’m feeding three growing boys here). Too big to fit into the crock pot unless I cut it in half.

So I set it on the cutting board and find my biggest knife.

Meanwhile, Nathan is already at church waiting for us and Kaleb can’t find his tie and Jake is dragging his heels and Kendell is all “let’s leave NOW so we can walk” and Jake’s like “I’ll just stay here then and come late with mom because I am not walking” and I’m being perfectly quiet but inside my head I’m fuming at myself because I had more than two hours to get ready and yet I’m late again, and I’m fuming at Kendell because can’t he just load them up into the *&$*#ing van and take them, and I’m fuming at Jake for being such a teenager, and I’m sawing silently away at the half-thawed raw pork, and the blade gets stuck.

And instead of calmly wiggling it out like a non-silently-fuming person would do, I yank on the knife as hard as I can, with all the fuel of my fumingness behind the yank.

And it slides right out of the pork.

And slices right into my forehead.

So then I threw the knife down and I screamed every. single. swear word that was fuming around inside my head, and I clamp my hand across my forehead (immediately wondering if you can only catch trichinosis by eating raw pork? Or can it get in through a wound?). Jake and Kendell rushed over and Jake was perfectly calm. He offered to cut the pork for me and Kendell hustled me to the bathroom where I looked in the mirror at a long, narrow cut, and I’m sobbing and shaking and bleeding and my heart is pounding and I wailed but I don’t want an ugly scar! And then he put a big clump of toilet paper on it, which distracted me enough from my worries about scars because, ewww. THAT IS WHAT GAUZE IS FOR.

So I stopped shaking and crying and my heart stopped pounding because Kaleb (who had meanwhile found his tie) started telling me it could be worse, at least it didn’t cut my brain open, and you can’t shake, cry, and panic when you’re laughing.

Because really: how embarrassing is it to head to the ER (wounds requiring medical attention never happen when the doctor’s office is open, ever) to tell this story:

So, I was cutting some pork, and the knife got stuck so I yanked it out and yeah, I cut my forehead open with the back of a knife.

It’s a very common kitchen injury, the head wound.

What’s worse?

It was just shallow enough not to stitch. So I had to go to the ER, and listen to Kendell complain about how much the bill will be, and tell that story to the guy checking me in, and to the nurse who cleaned it off, and to the doctor and his two medical-student assistants.

And then they glued the stupid cut closed.

I would way rather have stitches than glue. Stitches at least look serious. (Stitches can at least be covered with a bandaid.) The glue shouldn't be covered because then forehead sweat will gather and dissolve the glue too quickly. The glue looks like I have a big, shiny glob of spit stuck to my forehead, with the cut, which turned purple, underneath.

But he promised me the scar will be smaller this way.

He better be right.

On the bright side, the pork is in the crock pot, and we’ll be having sweet pork burritos for dinner.

I was very careful not to bleed on it, I promise.