Readers, I have bad news. There has been a terrible tragedy.
You see, a few days ago, in an attempt to afford my children time to play in the fresh air and sunshine, I took them to the park. It started off well enough. We arrived to the playground with minimal whining and only one threat of disownment. Not exactly Nobel-worthy, but pretty good for us.
So the kids ran and played and skinned their knees. Raymond praised himself for his cartwheeling prowess. Sophia read her book under a tree while deftly avoiding the social death that would certainly come from accepting Emma’s invitation to play colonial times. And Gianni chatted up a little girl about his potty training regimen. (He gets 1 M&M for pee, 3 for poop, FYI.)