“MOMMY!!!!!!! You know that little pink ball I found at the park? It just exploded EVERYWHERE!”
I am nursing a four-day-old: I can’t exactly spring up and rush to the scene of this alleged explosion. Scott hears and comes thundering. Even more alarming than Rose’s outcry is my husband’s quiet “Ohhhh no.”
Seems that little pink ball was a paintball.
Fortunately, the explosion—and an explosion it was indeed—occurred in the bathroom. Rose had just finished washing her newfound treasure and was drying it with the hand towel.
I keep having little flashes of what might have been (the sofa, the carpet, the drapes, the children). Scott will see me shudder and know at a glance what I’m thinking.
“I know,” he’ll say. “Suppose it had happened in the car?”
Talk about dodging a (little pink) bullet.
Making Lists, Checking Them Twice
Look Where We Went!
It’s Lent, and We’re No Longer Green