The No Whine Zone {Sometimes}

We’re pretty firm believers in attempting to uphold a no whining policy here at the Brewer house. 

 

This has become increasingly difficult with a ten year old who “complains” (clarifying to me that it’s not whining) followed by an eye roll and sigh. A seven year old who whines and then proceeds to cry...at the drop of a hat. A four year old who whines followed by attitude way bigger than her little britches can hold.

So last week when slicing up a salad, I inadvertently sliced the tip of my middle finger with the mandolin slicer. Let’s disregard the fact that I wasn’t using the device properly as outlined by the manufacturer. I figured I’d been making salads a long time and needn’t adhere to such “rules” to save my fingers.

However, I did adhere to family policy and refrain from whining...that day. I didn’t scream or even let out a yelp. I calmly asked the girls to bring me two band aids to which they yelled, “WHOA! Mommy's finger is bleeding” And stared for a good 10 seconds.

Can someone just BRING ME A BAND AID?!

So Mal comes to my rescue and even unwraps the band aids completely... and leaves them on the counter for me. Within the hour I’m on the search for more...it was that bad.

At one point D asks, “Are you just kinda mad at yourself right now mom?”

Mad that I cut my finger or mad that I can’t get this salad done with only 9 fingers before dinner?

What I didn’t realize in the days ahead was how debilitating being down one finger is in my line of work, i.e. dishwasher, chef, laundry lady and chauffeur. This led me secretly temporarily lifting the ban on whining where I spent a few days of “mentioning” (possibly to everyone near me) that my finger was in bad shape.

Because you couldn’t tell with two angry bird band aids wrapped around my middle finger. And my awkward hand use in every situation.

Due to my casual mentioning of my 9 digit problem, my husband became concerned that maybe I should have had stitches. Not to mention that I’m now washing dishes with a blue plastic glove. I assured him this was just a very temporary problem and that in a month or so, all fingers should be back in business...maybe...sniff...sniff. (He didn't buy it.)

Little to no sympathy has been offered up by the other three. This could be that they have been recruited to dish washing duty almost nightly, where in good faith, there is a dose of whining. So in turn, I play the “well I almost sliced the tip of my finger off so you are helping me” card. Game on.

The moral of this story?

I’m not sure there really is one since I stooped to the level of my children. Maybe this is a good time to tell them the importance of “Do as I say, not as I do.” And “I thought I was a salad super hero and look what happened. Don't be like me” and reference again the aforementioned quote.

Oh and maybe I should also point out to them that there are manufacturer directions for a reason...ten of them.