This post is not a confession. I ought to have one blog on which to confess and one on which to brag. But you wouldn’t read the brag blog, would you? Oh that’s right, you would–you already read fifty others. Sigh. You’ll just have to put up with the occasional non-confession from the Confessions girl. Sorry bout that.
Well, congratulate me. I am officially First Aid & CPR certified.
Among the dates I never imagined having with The Boss (Yes. He is. Spank him if you see him.) was the one we enjoyed last night: shuttling the kids to Grandma’s, grabbing Wendy’s French fries and burgers to go, and taking a four-hour training session giving chest compressions to naked dummies.
“George” looked a little too lifelike, and the baby was even worse.
But I know how to do it.
I know how to tell the difference between a poisonous and nonpoisonous snake bite.
I know to treat a burn.
I know what “open the airway” means.
I know what 4x4s are.
I know how to tourniquet.
I know how to check for stroke symptoms.
I know how to use an EpiPen to treat an allergic reaction.
I know how to use a rescue inhaler.
I know how to create a makeshift splint.
I know how to properly preserve an amputated body part.
I know how to use an AED to shock the dickens out of anybody so foolish as to try dying within my sight.
And now that I am all puffed up and loaded for bear, I am praying the Lord not to let anybody I love force me into converting theory to practice, so help me. I’ve called 911 exactly one time in my life and it was horrifying.
An unusual date indeed—Step 245 in preparing for fostering.