Nearing the dinner hour last night I was hanging out in the kitchen hoping that the male parental unit of the clan would call and tell me not to cook that we would go out to our favorite watering hole to eat instead.  My cherubic third thing interupts my time of wishful thinking and says, “Can I call, Daddy?  I have something to ask him.”  Sure, I say and dial the number and hand him the phone.  He takes it to the other room for a few minutes and brings it back to me finished with his conversation.  He wants Daddy to buy him a golf bag…  Brainiac second thing is “teaching him to play golf.”  In my daze of thinking maybe I could just forget to make dinner…  would that be believable?  I remember the thought crossing my mind about how sweet it was that number two was taking time to teach number three golf….  ohhhhh, what a joyful moment of mothering.  I hope they will always be so close.

Then the screaming started.  Jarred out of my not wanting to cook state, the bigger of the two golf playing things comes running in the house, hand to head, saying that his little brother hit him in the head.  With what?  Apparently, Thing 2 isnt a very good golf instructor – which is a viable option since he prefers to drive the cart over actually hitting the ball – or his head looks like a Top-Flite XL to Thing Three (who, incidentally, informed us later in the evening that he thinks he needs glasses).  Yes, the little one took the middle one out with a 5 iron.  Apparently, when you get hit in the head with a 5 iron you hear a ding and then someone saying “Come to dinner!”  I think that the come to dinner thing was added for comic relief, but really who knows with that kid.

So….  off to Urgent Care.  Thank GOD for Urgent Care.  5 stitches later…  we ate dinner out.  Note to self – if you want to eat dinner out, give the boys some golf clubs and send them outside.

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