So I gotta tell ya what happened this week.
It was a lovely day at church where Small Son inadvertently put his hand through the window. It cut his wrist horribly, barely missing the artery. When I took a good look at it, I pretty much hit the floor. While I claim that I was always fully conscious, at least a little bit, this has been disputed by those present. And apparently I wasn’t the only one who fainted when I saw it, either, although I was busy seeing stars and can’t confirm it. Go, me.
But he’s stitched, he’s happy, life goes on and Tiny Daughter now insists on wearing a bandage on her wrist, too. In fact, she insists that the entire family wears them as a reward after cleaning and changing Small Son’s bandages, so for at least half an hour a night we look like the Yardley Suicide Club. It’s grisly, but black humor is pulling us through.
What’s even more ironic is that the night before this happened, my mom said, “If I didn’t see the weird things that constantly happen in your life, I wouldn’t believe it. Your life is a comic strip.”
Yes, yes it is.
So I took a little time off and spent it appreciating my wonderful family. Now I’m ready to get back into the writing grind, and I no longer start sobbing whenever somebody says, “Hey, at least now you have another chapter for your Williams Syndrome book!” Rock on.