As the sun sank between the slats of our kitchen blinds, I caught a few minutes to myself to quickly throw dishes in the cupboard, wipe up the crumbs that lined the faux-granite counter tops and fed the dog who waited patiently nearby, her eyebrows raised as if suggesting she may starve if I keep up this whole feeding her late thing we have going on. A few sponge swipes in, I heard the dreaded:
THUNK.
Never good with two boys in the house. Even if one of them is thirty-something.
One deep inhale later and knuckles whitening waiting for that deep-throated cry to follow, I was surprised to only here: "MOOOMMMYYY! Come see!"
Now with a real sense for alarm given that the man down was the hubs from their wrestling match, I sprung into the playroom to find his face only lined with concern. No blood, completely coherent and even smiling. Trying to assess exactly what was going on here, our son cleared it up by pointing fervently and noting:
"Oh no, Mommy! Daddy has a BOO BOO!"
Looks of confusion were swapped between the perfectly-fine husband and myself. "Where buddy? Show Mommy please," I said in a supportive, you're-not-crazy tone. Slowing approaching his Daddy with careful sea legs and a pointed finger he aimed for:
The back of his head. Way back.
Directly on: the bald spot.
Fair enough, little buddy, fair enough.
I assume your Daddy is now just as concerned as you are! Guess it could've been worse, right hubs?! Right?!
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