Nathan got a Swiss Army knife for his birthday yesterday. He had it for about three minutes before he opened all of the blades/tools on it at the same time.
I said “okay, now you’ve done that. Please don’t do it again. If you do, you’ll cut yourself.”
So tonight he did it again. Guess what? He cut himself.
I was enjoying a cup of coffee and stimulating conversation with some fellow bloggers at the time, and now he’s in bed, so I haven’t seen it. However, Lea’s answer to the blog post subject question was the former, and I asked her to clean it well and stinging be damned, so I’m sure it’s all good.
(There was also the shame of the collected knife deposited on Dad’s dresser, and having to go to bed thinking about the Dad talk coming in the morning.)
I seem to recall my similar pocket knife lesson involving abuse of the leather punch. It’s the only time I can ever remember holding a pool of blood in my hand.
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Sometimes there’s only one way to learn….
That happened for me at 7. Cut my thumb about 15 minutes after receiving my first pocket knife while “testing” how sharp the blade was.
I rode all the way home beside my Dad with my hand in my coat pocket.
I made sure to keep that in mind when my oldest son did the same thing.
Ah, the rite of passage for boys I suppose.
Boo has some pocketknives that are straight-up deadly looking. We have a discussion with each and every one as I make him demonstrate opening in front of me. No injuries yet, but a lot of held breath by his dad.
I decided I’m hanging onto it until his finger is all the way healed. Then we’ll try again.