The incident of '10

Our pot and my daughter's on the fireplace

My husband got it in his head two years ago that we needed to clean out the chimney to our wood-burning fireplace.  Being the ever-supportive wife that I am, I offered to help...until it got messy... then I was out.  I did help put the pipes back together, a decision that will live in infamy in our home.

The chimney comes apart into several smaller pieces for easy take-apart and put-back-together.  After my husband did all of the dirty work of cleaning the pipes, we attempted to put the chimney back up.  Unfortunately, they wouldn't stay!  In one last effort to get them to stick, Jonathan pushed hard on the side of one pipe.  The whole thing fell apart and came crashing down.  One of them happened to land on my exposed foot (note to self: flip-flops always =injury) and sliced it open.

I screamed, of course.  Jonathan's first instinct was to touch my wound; I quickly and not-so-nicely reminded him that he had fireplace soot all over his hands.  We rushed to Instacare to get stitched up.  We had a bet going of how many stitches I would need.  The grand total was five--I lost.  My punishment: I had to play "SORRY," and boy, was I.  Worst...game...ever.

Now, when I hear Jonathan saying he might want to clean the chimney again, I stay out of the way.