Mom is always right

For my last weekend at home, I vowed to see as many friends as possible while adding to the growing pile of "things to pack" that I have placed in my absent brother's room. On Saturday night, I thought it would be a fabulous idea to go ice-skating at the National Sculpture Garden in DC. My mother, horrified at the idea, began her comments with a curt, "No" and then proceeded to launch into a shpeel about how I didn't go ice skating enough to prevent me from getting hurt, an injury that would surely jeopardize my life in Americorps by way of a sprained ankle or severed spinal cord.

She's been getting nervous. I recognized this.

Fast forward to the next evening. In honor of my girlfriends who have been with me every step of the way, I decided to throw an elegant dinner party at my place. Since my cooking mostly consists of watching my dad whip up gourmet dishes, nodding as he explains "food science" to me and occasionally making really great salads, I decided to make the actual cooking party of dinner minimal. Table set and dressed to entertain, I returned to the kitchen to see my Dad squeezing some lemon over the salmon he had prepared for himself and my mom. "Oh!" I thought. "Lemon for the water, perfect."

I picked up the lemon, the knife, and began to slice.

But the lemon was tough. Tougher, in fact, than any of the 10 or so lemons that I have sliced in the years I have been allowed to handle knifes. So I pressed slightly harder.

"Slice"

With a clang, I dropped the knife on the floor and grabbed my fingers on the hand that had been steadying the evil citrus monster. After confirming that my fingers were indeed intact, my Dad soothed the situation with his kind words of reflection. "You weren't paying attention." Oh, the love.

My Mom, already exploding with maternal worry for the last child in the house, walked upstairs with me as I gasped. Sure, the fingers hurt, but in my bloody shock I had grabbed my cardigan as my Dad was yelling, "Put pressure on it!" and discovered two blood spots. My FAVORITE cardigan. I remained transfixed on the tiny red dots as I thrust my two fingers outward for my Mom to attend to.

I spent the rest of the dinner party with two gauzed and bandaged fingers as I cooked, served, and hosted my best. Luckily my friends weren't TOO grossed out.

So I hereby dedicate this post to my quirkily lovable parents, dinner party girlfriends, and of course, my first and second fingers on my left hand. Because for all of the above, I didn't truly appreciate the beauty they bring to my life until they take a hiatus.