Ouch

I am injured.

Usually when I hurt myself, the cause is embarrassing. Once, I hurt my knee getting out of bed. Getting out of bed? The reason was as lame as I was. Of course, when I was asked at work, my explanation was more like "Uh, I guess I just twisted it somehow." Technically, I probably had just twisted it as I sprang from bed, eager to face a new day. I know my vague response was a let-down. When people see an injury they want a good story to go with it. When there isn't a story, I think most folks know the real reason must be pretty dumb.

But this time, this time I have an injury, and more importantly a cause, of which I can be proud. I hurt myself playing football, just like a real athlete. Well, we  were just playing catch, but still, a football was involved. And I'm not just a little injured either. Oh no, we're talking a fracture, folks. That's right, I broke a bone playing football. I can't wait to get to work and tell the guys.

I suffered for a few days before finally going into Urgent Care today for an x-ray. It was a little satisfying to tell the receptionist that I was there because I'd injured my hand playing football. Of course, I had to be a bit more specific with the nurse. I had to explain that I was playing catch and that, in trying to catch the ball, I had basically poked it with my index finger. When I explained to her that we often play football on Thanksgiving, she laughed and said, "Gee, just like some sort of TV family." Given the diverse families depicted on television these days I wasn't sure if I should be offended or flattered. I decided to go with flattered but only because I don't recall ever seeing Honey Boo Boo and her clan tossing the old pigskin in the yard.

So here I sit with a bum finger. It's my primary typing finger and the one I use for most of my mouse clicking. It's going to make it hard for me to work. Even worse, it's going to cramp my Cyber-Monday plans. It's the price I pay for being such a jock.

Story Snack

When our boys were young, part of our bedtime ritual was for A and I to read them a story or two in bed. It started with simple books like "Goodnight Moon" and "The Hungry Caterpillar". As the boys grew, so did the books, colorful pictures were replaced by wordy paragraphs. Eventually, the boys began reading on their own and parental participation fell to the wayside. They enjoy reading and I like to think that we had something to do with that. We value books in our house, as our shelves can attest. I think the boys learned early on that, when perusing a gift shop on vacation, look for a book. Mom and Dad rarely say no to a book.

There are some books both B and N have read and enjoyed but they've also each chosen their own path. Fantasy and science fiction are popular genres but they do occasionally stray into other areas. N went through a phase where he curled up each night with "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare" and B's reading list lately is dictated by English class. He's reading "To Kill A Mockingbird" now and recently finished "The Catcher In The Rye".

Back in those wonderful early days, we had another bedtime routine. Each night, before stories, the boys would have a small snack - usually a bowl of cereal or ice cream. I'm not sure when it happened, but at some point, it was decided to start the story portion during the snack. This probably happened about the time the books started getting more involved and time consuming. I recall there was a brief time when the boys would be read to during the snack and then retreat to their beds to read on their own. Today, the boys do all their reading on their own.

They do, however, still like a snack before bed and, in our house, it is still referred to as a "story snack".