Especially not Grandpa's razor-sharp gardening shears.
But three-year-olds are wont to snatch things up as soon as you put them down.
They're also wont to run off with them, at least, for a few seconds.
They're also wont to trip and fall.
The whole process takes less time than it takes to read about it.
Andrew, Carmel and I got a very thorough practical anatomy lesson. The wound, which looked just like Andrew had slit his wrist from side to side, exposed the tendons and arteries - but damaged neither. Carmel was nearby, and had already bound the wound with her dress and applied pressure to it by the time I got there, maybe 30 seconds after the event.
We managed to distract Andrew at the Hospital as the stitches were being put in (the wound was far worse than it looked at first sight, quite deep, but still missed everything major), by singing nursery rhymes. He was utterly terrified, crying, bloodied and screaming in pain, yet managed to sing "the Grand Old Duke of York" along with us as the Doctor did her gruesome work (and Daddy held his wrist steady). I even managed to spot a piece of foreign body hidden from the Doctor's sight by one of the tendons. In. My. Infant. Son's. Wrist. (Permission to Gibber? Refused.)
Andrew is now fast asleep, happy as Larry that he got a McDONALDS GIFT CERTIFICATE!!!! for being so brave. His only complaint was that Mackers was closed (it was midnight when we finally left the hospital), and soon cheered up when I said we could go to Hungry Jack's tomorrow (he prefers them, anyway).
I am so bloody proud of the little bloke.
Panic over, duty done, everything OK, I can now collapse in a screaming heap and change my gore-soaked clothes. When I said "bloody proud" I meant it literally.
To parents everywhere, Goodnight.