I shouldn't even post this post because as soon as I do, anyone who read my last post and thought, Oh, honey, bad shit happens to kids all the time, that 'True story' column in Parents magazine is gold, will get to revel in their smugness.
But if you've learned anything about me from this blog, you know that I don't mind providing sustenance for smug people from time to time. It all comes out the other end eventually.
So here goes. Last week, Everett and I were standing in the back yard, patiently waiting for Junior's kindergarten bus to come. If you're from Connecticut too, 1) I'm sorry and 2) you know that it was brutally windy all week.
While we stood there, getting mussed about, this plastic kiddie pool waited right alongside us.
As soon as I heard the bus I said to Everett, "Let's go get—"
But I never finished my sentence because the wind picked up the pool and blew it through the air. Then it rolled on its side toward Everett, knocked him down, and fell on top of him.
Of course, I ran to him. And then suddenly Junior was at my side, demanding to know what was going on.
"What happened? Mom, what happened? What happened, Mom?"
Everett was upset. Junior was upset that Everett was upset. I was upset, too, but I was also incredulous. I half expected someone from Parents magazine to emerge from the woods and say, "Fuck with us on your blog, will you? I'd think twice about that next time."
I really did look over my shoulder one too many times.
After the excitement died down and the kids' tears had been wiped away, I secured the pool with some logs. I spent the rest of the afternoon somewhere between bemusement—Really? Attacked by a rogue kiddie pool?—and befuddlement. You know, I can't believe that days after I bitch about the 'True story' column my kid gets creamed by a rogue kiddie pool and I think to myself, Wow, that would make a really good 'True story'.
I also was immensely grateful my kid hadn't been decapitated. He'll probably never swim again, or maybe he'll have reoccurring nightmares about flying blue orbs, but it all worked out. I even planned on telling the neighbors about it when I saw them later that night. Like, Hahaha, you'll never guess what happened this afternoon.
But they recently had a new baby—number four—and somehow, just somehow, the story never made it to the table.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.