That one time when I grilled my arm

Last week, we went out to have dinner at Mothermine's {that's my mom, btw}.  Pa-Dad's {and that's my dad} out of town, so Superman was mowing the lawn.  Which made him unavailable for grilling {Which he's really amazing at.  He really has been touched by the grill-gods.  Gifted, I tell you.}

So I pretended that I could grill the steak to perfection and got my "I can totally grill that steak" face on.  Probably to impress my mom {still craving parental approval? Really, Beth?  Really?}

I went to examine the large beast of a grill with Madelyn while my Mom stayed inside and played with Lila and Ezra.  Oh.  Bigger than Superman's, but I've got this.  Doesn't have a little ignite button thing like Superman's.  That's ok.  Gas on.  Turn those little knobs.  Match. I need a match.  Match match match.  Got it.  Ok match struck.  on.  Open grill and....

Can you see where this is going?


The lawnmower drowned my scream.  The smell of burnt hair filled the air.  My burnt hair.  My arm seared with pain.  A startled Madelyn looked up with alarm from the other end of the patio {thank heaven she was on the other end of the patio. Can you imagine? Yikes. Don't even wanna think about that.}  I smiled my "Mom's pretty funny isn't she?" smile to keep her calm.  Superman turned the corner.  I gave him a nonchalant wave that said, "Everything's fine, honey.  I'm just your rockstar wife grilling your steak to perfection."  {your steak and my arm, that is. I was totally pulling a Micheal Scott here.}

Ow ow ow ow.  Water.  I need running water.

"Beth can you get the high chair out," calls Mothermine.

"You bet." I say, nonchalantly. Get high chair.  Get water.

Cold water never felt so good.
And by the way, the steak was delicious.

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