A sidenote - I hate the term "playdate." Since when is kids playing together a noun? When I was little, we'd say, "Can I go over to Pam's?" or "Can Pam come over?" For a time, I forbid my children to use the word "playdate" so they started saying "PD." Which is even dorkier.
Anyway - My younger son, whom I rarely talk about here - not on purpose, it just sort of seems that way, don't judge me, was over at his buddy Evan's house. They were being supervised by Evan's dad, Mike, who is a morning DJ in Denver. Usually, I don't stick dads with playdates because a) they're not really watching the children and b) please see a). However, Evan's mom and I had been putting off a beerdate (because if there are playdates, why should there not be beerdates) for weeks, so we decided this was some kind of spectacular timing and the universe was practically forcing us to have her husband watch all the short people so that we could enjoy some barley pops on the patio. Also, Evan's dad has actually praised the merits and character of my boy on regional airwaves, leading me to believe that he has some sort of fondness for him that might keep my child out of harm.
Who here knows what foreshadowing means? Cause I just dropped you a big ol' nugget of it in that last paragraph.
Anne and I had our feet kicked up and the beers flowing, happily talking about what superior parents we are to everyone else we've ever met, because seriously? Just look at our children, oh my gosh they're perfect, when Mike calls and says he's taking his three kids and Miles out to dinner.
We glowed. We were not only superior parents, but we'd married well. Life was good. Let's drink to that.
In the interest of time, I'll fast forward to Mike calling that my sweet baby's head was split open and he may or may not require emergency medical care, so could we please hustle on over because the blood, oh my god. The. Blood.
Way to be a buzzkill, Mike.
I suggest you go now to his blog for the rest of the bloody tale.
You should know it ended with stapling. And ice cream. And a sleepover that I'd prefer to call "a friend spending the night." But whatever.
Happy spring break. Literally.
(Get it? Because, like, a spring broke. On his head. You gotta go read Mike's version.)