Despite having trained as nurse and seen some gore in my time, I went into tailspin. Fretting over 'ambulance or GP-in-an-hour-when-it-opens' as our wee town's wealthy doctors won't do on-call and I won't drive to a hospital an 1 hour away, at rush hour, on earthquake ravaged streets, many (which ones???) still closed, with a screaming bleeding toddler whilst wailing myself. Oh my poor bear!
Of course on arrival the ambulance staff say she doesn't need hospital and disapear with a 'gosh your pathetic its only a cut' look. An hour later the GP says she needs to see a plastic surgeon.
Claudine of course stopped crying long before I, and has been untroubled since, instantly ambidextrous, her infamous climbing skills unaffected. Luckily surgery is not required. Her finger tip should grow back, but probably not the nail. Oh bear, I'm so sorry.
So this is what "mummy guilt" feels like. It's bad.
