There's an old joke in my family about my dad injuring himself doing the most ridiculous of things - walking down the sidewalk, for example - when he was an active athlete for his first 25 or so years of his life.

One incident I remember vividly was a summer evening when we were walking on empty plastic barrels in our backyard.  (What?  Not everyone has 55-gallon water barrels lying around?)
We were all testing our skills and balance, walking along the tops of the rolling barrels, and I guess Dad thought he needed to show us a thing or two.  Long story short: he scared us all pretty good.
Dads shouldn't get seriously injured, right?

SO.  Last night I was in the kitchen, ready to start on dinner, when Slice walked in the back door.
"Uh .... Rachel .... I cut myself.  It's pretty bad."
"What?  What do you mean you cut yourself?"
"I mean I cut myself!  With a knife!"
At this point I turned to look.  He was fairly calm, so when he pulled up the pant leg I was surprised at the size of the gash in his leg.
"How did that happen?"
"I was throwing my knife and it bounced back and sliced my leg ..."
"You were throwing the ... bounced back off ... of what?"

On the bright side, we have good insurance and live 4 blocks from the hospital.  And, I won't have to tell Liam not to play with knives for a very long time.  That kid remembers EVERYTHING.
you know I have to put this here.

1 comment:

Linnea said...

Man! Poor Slice.