That our son was standing in his pajamas last night on a swivel chair was a broken bone itchin’ to happen.
Only it didn’t.
Our son had hollered a single, “WATCH ME.” Which we had. And before my husband or I could reflex anything, he’d done a two-footed jump from the swirling computer chair and smacked himself into the waiting craft table.
The craft table was fine. And…
the kid with the red face still thinking about breathing was okay, too. By which time my husband and I started talking again. And our son who had a thing for pain got back on that swivel chair.
Only, without standing, he tipped over the arm rest part and high-centered himself. Which might not have been so bad if both feet weren’t aimed at the ceiling and his head–dear, Lord–wasn’t in the trash.
That our son would work to get un-upended for most of the next minute…and that my husband and I would first compress a side ache and then marvel still silently at such talent in our family seemed, well, like the only appropriate way to spend our Wednesday night.
Swivel chairs…by golly, heh…