Call The Boys!!

So last night I had to call in the paramedics. It was nothing about the baby or Wilson, so take a deep breath; it was about me. This time, the dishwasher got me.

I was putting the dishes away, trying to be a good little homemaker, and as I put Wilson's high chair tray away on top of the cabinet, a big drop flew out and hit me straight in the eye.

It burned like the devil. It felt like someone stuck a lit cigar in my eye. (Dishwasher soap has lye in it, nasty stuff.) Happily Wilson was already asleep so I didn't have him biting my ankles and crying (he's teething several molars). After about 5 minutes of flushing my eye in the bathroom sink, I called my dad. Grampa Fire Chief to the rescue!

Poor guy. I woke him out of a dead sleep (it was 11:15) whimpering about dishwashers and high chair trays and rinse agents. He told me to keep doing what I was doing, and that if Josh wasn't going to be home from hockey within a few minutes (he wasn't) to "call The Boys". So I did.

It's funny the things that go through your mind in a situation like this. My eye burned like hell, but now I knew there were firefighters coming to my house. Firefighters are yummy. So now I'm worrying about not only my poor eye, but whether or not I still have makeup on the other eye, and maybe I should do my hair? Did I have time to whip up a batch of cookies and charm them with warm baked goods?

And then they were here, and I almost cried because the first guy in the door looked like an ugly Super Mario Brother. (Nooooo!) Luckily three very tall, good-looking men followed him. While none of them were necessarily worthy of the 2008 Washington State Firefighters Calendar, they were huge and manly and there to rescue me. *swoon*

However. They didn't have an eyewash kit with them, so you know what they did? Stuck my eyeball under the spray nozzle in the kitchen sink. They suddenly became much less good-looking. There I was, four months pregnant, in my pinecone pajama pants and Halo tee-shirt, sticking my round rump into three of their faces while the fourth hosed my eyeball down like it was catching afire. Hardly the rescue I had envisioned.

Once the crisis was over, my eyeball sufficiently rinsed and numb from the icy water bath, they noticed my Halo tee-shirt. I gathered that the rookie was being soundly beaten by one of the veterans in their matches. (He has three teenage sons; he cheats.) Ho-hum.

Anyway, crisis managed and all okay. Dr. Chris checked me out and said I will live. Word to the wise: don't put dishwasher soap in your eye. Unless you just can't come up with a better excuse to get The Boys to pay you a visit.