Contemplating: How silly our Maine Coon cat, Max, looks now. Max had some matted fur on his back that I couldn't brush out, so I took him to the pet groomer last week. I don't think the groomer knew what a Maine Coon is supposed to look like because she trimmed the ruff of fur around his neck. Poor Max's head now looks absurdly small without his mane.

Feeling: Exhausted. A week of late nights is catching up with me. It's only 9 p.m., and I am seriously considering going to be

Like a Surgeon

This morning I was called upon to perform minor surgery once again. You see, I have become the splinter-removal specialist of our family, by default. I am not as squeamish about the job as Tab is, and I take a certain satisfaction in the successful removal of a splinter.

I used to hate taking out splinters because I am loath to cause anyone pain. Daniel would pull his hand away at the first touch of the tweezers and scream as though he thought his hand was about to be amputated. After a while I learned that it was better to be sympathetic but brisk and efficient and not let myself be swayed by the pleas of the wounded one.

I now have splinter removal down to a science. Assemble the necessary tools: narrow-necked tweezers, a hat pin we keep in the tweezers case, cotton balls, hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic cream, Band-Aid. Sterilize the edge of the pin in the open flame of the gas range. Calm the patient as much as possible. Admit that it will hurt, but assure him that the operation will be over soon. Take firm hold of the patient's hand. Use the pin to open up the thin layer of skin covering the splinter until the end of the splinter can be grasped with the tweezers. Using the tweezers, pull it out, quickly and steadily. Dab the wound with cotton balls soaked in hydrogen peroxide, anoint with antibiotic cream, and top with a Band-Aid, if necessary.

The procedure is almost never as simple as I just described, however. Usually there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and I must speak reassuringly and soothingly throughout the process and offer a special treat for cooperative behavior. Today the patient was Tab, though, so instead of anguished cries there was stoic silence with only occasional flinching.

I called the boys into the kitchen to witness the removal of Tab's splinter. Daniel lost interest quickly, but Stephen and Matthew watched avidly, each no doubt thankful that it wasn't his hand being operated upon. They hovered so closely that several times I had to ask them to move back out of my light. When it was over and the splinter completely removed, they comforted Tab, patting him on the back and murmuring words of sympathy.

"That's OK, Daddy. You can have a special treat now!" Stephen consoled him.

PostScript by Tab

Monday, September 20. I want it on the record that I still haven't received my special treat.

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