Today’s my due date but not my birthday ’cause I shows up when I wont to, boiiiiiiii.
You know how kids wanna scare the ever-lovin’ crap outta you, all the time? You know?
Here are just a couple ways my super dependably cautious son has tried *not* to make it to his upcoming ninth birthday:
(1) Stick hand into ball dispenser at bowling alley.
Let’s just stop right there, right, because. Who. WHO. does that. Whodoesthat.
I was not present. By the time I heard about this, his hand was free, swollen and scuffed. And he was doing his Ezra-the-Confessor bit, which my father clearly didn’t see coming because he’d intended not to tell me until way later? MY CHILD WILL SPILL THE BEANS, DADDY. COME CORRECT. And having been told by the child who clearly wasn’t dead or missing said hand (which my dad thought a possibility and poor dear, he probably looked a lot like that owl at the time), I still almost passed. out. Don’t.
(2) Get bit in forehead by family dog.
Okay, this wasn’t his fault and maybe bite’s the wrong word but his skin was broken and AGAIN I WAS NOT THERE AT THE MOMENT BECAUSE THE LORD WAS TESTING MY BLOOD PRESSURE. “Let’s see how many times she can find something out after the fact, see that her son is alive and mostly intact and still have a heart spasm.”
(3) Fall off bed in the middle of the night and against the corner of the nightstand. So that an inverted teepee shape was right – some might say, decoratively – beneath his left eye.
I promise, if there was somebody to whoop, they’da got whooped. Latifah had in all seriousness had it up to here by this point.
All of these happened in California on our marathon vacation. And then today…
(4) Rub his eye – which was irritated – with a visibly soiled rag.
I can’t. Eye swollen. Doctor called. Steps taken.