Of knives and diapers

Getting married has revealed a lot of things to me that I didn't know before, but one of the most surprising ones is how dangerous I am with knives. I have a real issue with them. One of our friends very generously gave us a top-of-the-line knife set for our wedding and I've come to the conclusion that Mom didn't keep her knives sharp while I was growing up. Dad always told us kids that if we were going to get injured to make sure to protect our hands so we could still play our instruments, and I'm thinking just to make sure our fingers stayed intact, Mom purposefully kept her knives rather dull. In any case, sharp knives were new to me upon receiving our exceptional set.  


The first time I cut myself was while dropping the chef knife, which is long enough to slice my upper arm about three inches above my elbow when I'm holding it in my hand (I know...this maneuver takes talent). I had done this five minutes before Warren got home from work and when he came in and saw me holding a bloody paper towel on my arm he quickly went to doctoring it. We had only been married a month, so I was unaware what "doctoring" meant to my groom. He came out of our spare bedroom with medical tape and a diaper. In a few minutes I had the diaper plastered to my arm and it was so bulky I could hardly move. Apparently diapers work well on horse wounds, and thus of course my husband keeps them on hand. It was a little embarrassing when the wound healed and now is a scar that's barely visible. That either tells you that diapers have superior healing powers or the cut was very small to start with (don't tell anyone but the second option is actually the truth).  


I've cut myself at least once a week since this episode, and each time I do Warren threatens to take the knife set away in order to spare my fingers. He has yet to come through on this threat (this may be a sign that he likes my cooking), but yesterday took the cake. I cut myself again. It really hurt, and I couldn't help but take a picture of the wound and text it to Warren. He came in for lunch a few minutes later to find my bleeding finger wrapped in a bandaid. He presently announced, "That's it!" and went to the knife block, asking which knife had done it in order to confiscate it. I told him which weapon was to blame: the paring knife. No, not the sharp paring knife in our knife set...the little, dull red one we got for free when ordering some other kitchen utensils. Warren looked at me with those smiling eyes of his and then started laughing. Apparently if I can cut myself with that knife, it's a lost cause altogether. 


This morning my knife block is still full and my red paring knife is on the counter. Warren suggested I use butter knives if I want to avoid cutting myself, although I'm not sure that would make a difference. It's okay--I'm coming to grips with reality. It's taken awhile but I'm now resigned to a future of sliced up fingers and the infamous burden of diaper-wearing.