I'm never sure what I'll find in Youngest's pants pockets when I ready the jeans to go into the washer. If it's a school day, there is likely a wrapper from his snack at recess. Gee, did he have the crackers or the Nilla Wafers? Or was it the granola bar? [Lest you get the wrong idea about me, it could also be the wrapper from his Goldfish or Cheez-Its. Yeah, I suck.] School day or not, there's also likely to be a rock or a penny or some Lego piece that I'd been looking for ever since trying to make Anakin's Y-Wing Starfighter.
But this? What the hell is this? Whatever it is, it's been wrapped in a paper towel from the school, and then it's been folded and taped, and then it's been soaked in something.
Hey, wait, it can't be that. I mean, the kid is only seven. And I've not seen drug dealers hanging on the lower yard with the primary school kids. And I'm there practically every single day.
Seriously, it looks like he's carrying. At 7.
Speaking of being 7 -- and eating junk food such as Goldfish and Cheez-Its -- did I tell you what happened to my husband on the playground two days ago?
As is often the case, he was playing basketball with the second graders. One oversized kid -- and by "oversized," I mean he tips the scale nearly to the point I do -- fouled him. Big time. He pushed into him, Pete landed wrong, and the kid came down on him. Hard
Hairline fracture to the foot. Yup. True story. Emergency room, X-rays, crutches. Certainly one-ups the bloody nose I got playing awhile back.
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