You probably know the saying “The mind may be willing but the body isn’t.” There are just some things we cannot do. For example, I can’t high jump. My vertical abilities are really quite sad—even when I was young. Okay, so maybe that one is not such a big deal, but I also don’t like the sight of cuts and blood. And when you have a crazy ten-year-old boy like mine, my struggle with the sight of blood now becomes a big problem.

This week he came running into the house screaming in pain. “My hand, my hand,” he wailed, clutching his palm.

I shore up my head with one of those mental you-can-do-this peps talks and pull his fingers away to see the damage. At first all I see is blood, so much of it I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. I’m doing my best to stop my hands from shaking as I wipe a rag across the skin. He’s freaked out enough as it is. Then he pulls back his thumb and exposes a puncher wound in the valley between the thumb and pointer finger. Oh, good grief, it’s deep. I’m sucking air, trying not to pass out as I keep inspecting and wiping to make sure the wound gets clean.

“Bring me the super glue,” I say to my oldest, a sweaty, clamminess coming over me. I have to make my son get down on his knees with me as I glue the cut closed, darkness threatening to take me at any moment.

My husband jumps in to finish bandaging the wound, because I end up on the floor doing all I can not to lose consciousness. Jeez, I hate being such a wimp, but when it comes to blood, my body doesn’t care—a wimp I will be.