Reason number two as to why I shouldn't eat out at a restaurant with Benjamin again until he's twenty-seven.

Monday nights are always a little hectic for us. Kenneth leaves work early, runs home for about five minutes to change clothes and grab a bite to eat, and then races off again to class from 5 to 8 pm. I attend a ladies Bible study from 7:30 to 9:30 pm, so from about 7:15 (when I leave for Bible study) to 8:45 (when K arrives home from class) the kids are left at home unattended.

Ha, ha. Just kidding.

Last night, Nana (my mom) graciously volunteered to keep the kids for us while I was gone until K could get home from class. And, she volunteered to take the kids and I out to dinner before I had to leave – what a fabulous Nana!

So, there we were, entering the restaurant.

The hostess asked, “Would you like a booster seat and a high chair?”

“Yes, thanks.” I replied.

Now let me pause and say that I am not one of those moms who worry about whether their child should sit in a booster seat or not. Sometimes Benjamin likes them, and other times he wants to be like Mommy and Daddy and sit without one. And since he’s really big enough now to reach his food without the booster seat, I have no problem either way. But, we bring one to the table most of the time just in case.

So at first he didn’t want to sit in it – no problem, we colored the kids menu without it. But then when his food arrived, he decided that he did want to sit up higher to reach his food, so I settled him happily into the booster.

A few minutes later he leaned over against me and said, “Mommy, my finger is stuck.”

Now, Benjamin uses the term “stuck” often, and usually completely out of context, such as “Mommy-my-legs-are-STUCK-under-this-huge-mountain-of-pillows-and-can-you-help-me-get-them-out?” or “Mommy-my-pants-are-STUCK-around-my-ankles-can-you-help-me-pull-them-up?” or “Mommy-my-arms-are-STUCK-around-you-in-this-hug-and-I-can’t-let-go!”

So I wasn’t alarmed.

Until I looked down.

On each arm of the booster seat was a very small hole right at the spot where a child’s fingers would rest – and probably subconsciously – slip into the holes.

Which was what had happened to my son’s left ring finger.

So, trying not to panic, I tried to wiggle his finger out. “That hurts!” he yelled. So we tried some hand sanitizer to try to wet the area and slide it out. Not working. Then we tried butter. STILL NOT WORKING. Then I tried putting ice around the finger to try to cool it off so it wouldn’t swell from all of the manipulating I was doing. STILL NOT WORKING.

All of this happened in about 30 seconds, and I quickly realized that we were going to need help, so I told my mom to tell the waitress to call the fire department. And after taking a few minutes to convince her and the restaurant manager that it really was an emergency and that his finger WAS SWELLING, they called 911.

About five minutes later (but what seemed like a year) an ambulance pulled in the parking lot and the EMTs came in. They tried using petroleum jelly to slide his finger out, but that proved to be too painful for Benjamin and they agreed that his finger was probably too swollen at that point to pull it out.

By the way, during all of this Benjamin was an angel. Although it was extremely painful when the EMTs were working with his finger, he refused to cry and only whimpered and buried his head in my shoulder. He cooperated with the specialists and answered all of their questions. I was so proud of him!

So the EMTs decided that they needed to call the fire department to come cut the seat off of his finger. They radioed their request in and we waited some more.

When the firemen arrived, they took a hack-saw and cut about a 3x3 square out of the booster seat around his finger (while I held my breath and prayed). This opened it up so that they could see the remaining hidden portion of his finger and it was clear to all of us that it was so swollen that it would not be able to be pulled out and would have to be cut out.

So then they got on the radio to locate the tools that they use for such a thing – for cutting adult hands and fingers out of machinery and such.

The tools were OVER AN HOUR AWAY.

Just then the man in the booth behind us said “I’ve got a sharp set of pliers out in the truck – you wanna try that?” The firemen looked at each other and shrugged. “Sure,” said one of them, “bring ‘em in and we’ll see if they’ll work.”

The man quickly went to his truck and brought back the pliers and the firemen set to work. One fireman held the piece of plastic around Ben’s finger to steady it and lessen the pressure on Ben’s finger, and another fireman started carefully cutting the plastic. A third fireman held Benjamin’s arm up, while a fourth held a flashlight directly on his finger. Mommy held Benjamin’s other hand and prayed.

It was a long process. The plastic was very thick, so the fireman had to chip away at it piece by piece. Finally, he made his way close to Benjamin’s finger. Sweat popped out on his forehead and I prayed even harder. One slip of his hand and Benjamin would surely lose his little finger to the sharp pliers.

One more clip and then he stopped and manually pried the plastic apart. Benjamin pulled is finger out and I swooped him up in a big hug amidst clapping from all the people eating in the restaurant and huge smiles from all the firemen.

After checking his finger and pronouncing it fine – albeit quite red, swollen and sore – the firemen offered Benjamin a seat in the fire truck for being such a good boy throughout the whole ordeal. I wish I had my camera with me to show you that little boy's grin from ear to ear while sitting in that fire truck. He loved it!

And today? Today when I asked him what the firemen did last night at the restaurant, I expected him to tell me that they helped him pull his finger out of the booster seat.

But instead, he grinned and said, “They let me sit in their truck!”

Yes, son, that’s exactly what they did.