The Wife and the boys are with Grandma and Aunt C in Atlantic City this week, enjoying the sun and sand and boardwalk while I'm slaving away in the salt mines (otherwise known as banking). They have been having a great time, until yesterday late afternoon.
The Wife was off with one of the other boys , making a potty run. The Baby was playing in a playground, going down a slide. Occasionally, he goes down the slide with one of his legs curled underneath him. Well, this time his leg was curled a little bit too well, as his foot or shoe or something (nobody saw exactly what) got caught, twisting his knee into a funny shape. I'll turn the story over to her text messages to me:
"He was limping after having rested, so we thought it best to bring him here, to Atlantic City hospital. Children's, this isn't."
"It's too early for the gunshot wound people to be rolling in here... Is this The Baby's first ER visit? Mom says, get your card punched, you're a Musical boy."
"Anyhow, The Baby doesn't have any broken bones but his knee is sprained or something like that. I want to go back to sleep. He wouldn't stand to pee."
Sigh. We have a little push scooter that we'll use for him to get around the house, I suppose. Too many stairs, though. My nightmare is breaking my leg, and having to spend three months on one floor of my house. At least he's small enough that he's easily portable.
Best part? My new soon-to-be-manager at work, who is an insanely interesting individual, said to me: "You'll have to get used to the emergency room with your kids. You'll spend a lot of time there."
Oh, if he only knew....
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