Accident report

I’m at the closest Starbucks right now. I’ve been here about 15 minutes. I’ve already received two phone calls from my husband. Did I mention this is designated time for me to write? Alone? I’ve got the computer out (obviously), my Grande, decaf Cinnamon Dolce white mocha and petite vanilla scones. My Bible is ready to be referenced. Let the words flow.

The phone rings (for the second time). The first call, Shawn is wondering if I’ve been propagandizing our daughter. She wants a “treat”. Daddy says “after lunch”. She asks for ice cream. My husband explains “daddy’s tummy doesn’t handle ice cream all that well.” Avery says, “Well, God made girls to like ice cream.” You go, girl!

The phone call:

“Hello?” I say wanting to remind him I’ve only just left the house.

“Hey, your daughter wanted me to call you and tell you that we were playing chase and she fell down and skinned her leg. It hurts pretty bad.” He says all of this in one breath so I won’t hang up on him. I’ve got just a little bit of a soft spot for the kids so I’m inclined to listen.

“Were you guys outside?” My mind is wondering where he’s left the baby.

“No, she ran into one of the columns.” Decorative columns in the living room that separate the hall from the living space, the breakfast room from the living space, and apparently skin from my daughter’s leg.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The next statement I make, I’m only half-joking: “You better fill out an accident report.”

A little background information for you: Every time I leave Shawn with the kids, Avery gets hurt. I can safely say “every time” because, well, it’s true. The gusto with which he attacks playtime cannot quite be matched by my 3 year old. Daddies are wired to be fun, daddies wrestle and toss and chase like no mom could do. And daddies unwittingly knock their kids around. Avery has been dropped off of a bed, bumped into another infernal column, and tripped by big ol’ feet. If that man had any money, we’d be in small-claims court by now.

Now back to the conversation at hand.

“Give her a hug for me. What’s little man doing?” Need to make sure he’s still alive…or at least within earshot.

“I just laid him down.” Muffled to daughter: “Mommy wants me to give you a hug.”

Alright, so are we done? “Okay, talk to you later!”

We’ll see if another call comes in over the next hour. I can only hope he’s the one that collides with that darn column. Avery knows how to call me. I wonder if she can dial 9-1-1.