I was playing outside when it happened. A moment of carelessness, with a stick I'd found out in the yard, precipitated the hellish events that were soon to follow. I didn't know it at the time, my experience is still limited in many areas, but hindsight has taught me what my injury really was. I had...a splinter.

Tears streaming down my face, I ran to the one person I knew who could make it all better. From Mommy, I expected the usual kiss on this boo-boo, or maybe a colorful bandage, if I was lucky. What I did not expect was the sadistic ritual that would soon be performed on me.

The pain was unbearable at this point, or so I thought. My mother, my greatest protector and comforter, examined the wound. I caught a steely glint in her eye. <continued below>

"This has got to come out", she said. She and Daddy (or the big fun guy, as I like to think of him) exchanged a look.

"I'll get a needle, the tweezers and antiseptic", Daddy said.

I stopped howling. Needle? Did somebody say needle? I looked at Mommy. What was going on here?

"Don’t worry, honey", Mommy said in that soothing voice I love. My cries had diminished to whimpers by now. Obviously, this was unacceptable. My parents wanted to hear screaming.

I found myself overpowered by these much bigger people. I struggled futilely. My pleas for mercy went unheeded as my father dug down with the needle into the tender skin of my finger. My god, he scraped the bone, I'm sure of it.

The pain became a part of my very being. My mother's empty assurances that this would soon be over meant nothing. My agony was all I knew.

After what seemed an eternity, it was over. I was released. A cool, numbing antiseptic was applied to the wound. My mother hugged me and exclaimed over and over about what a big boy I'd been.

I reclined on the sofa, enjoying the unexpected reward of usually-forbidden afternoon cartoons; a little older, a little wiser -- a splinter survivor.

Loretta Casteen is a SAHM, military wife and a writer--mostly in that order. She is also co-owner of LazyGourmets.com