There comes a point in every person's life, no matter who you are, when you seriously consider the value a patch of skin has to you.
For me, that time is now, hours after muttering,"I promise," to my son (after weeks of saying that I'd try to get to it), and minutes after finally sitting down to fix his matchbox tow truck and, naturally, easily, and on-the-first-try, krazy gluing the damn thing to my left middle finger.
It's not attached by much; a quarter of a centimetre, square, but enough that it's causing me to seriously debate the pain of ripping that big of a hole in my being, versus manhandling two small children, driving around and making meals, etc, with a bright yellow tow truck hanging off my hand.
The package was very helpful: skin bonding -- soak in water (this is right after the bit where it warns not to get it on skin).
That's where Chris found me, draped over the sink, head on my arm, feeling sorry for myself while trying really hard not to laugh. Not to mention the irony: really? Krazy glue comes off with just water? That doesn't sound very crazy to me. Even maple syrup requires soap.
On top of everything else (I'm sick, I'm tired, I've signed up for too many social events this weekend, Chris has to work on Saturday, leaving me without a break till Sunday, yadda yadda...), I now have to face my son, and teach him, for the first time in his two years, one month, and two days, that sometimes, just sometimes, when Mommy says, "I promise," it's not a guarantee, as I've always taught him it was.
And then I'll have to explain that he can't have his tow truck yet; Mommy's not done playing with it.