The day started like every Friday… wait, no. Let me rewind because this Friday rolled in with the grace of a drunk raccoon in a tutu
Jack, the 3-year-old tornado with a Buzz Lightyear mission, woke up before me—which is already a crime against humanity because I’m up at 4:50 a.m. on Fridays to babysit him. He was ready to conquer the world… or, more specifically, get his hands on “his scissors.” Not just any scissors—his scissors. The sacred, mythical, camper-residing scissors.
So, being the responsible adult (barely), I handed him two perfectly good, small pairs from my craft room. But oh no, that would be too easy. He looked at me like I’d just offered him a spoon to cut steak. “These aren’t my scissors,” he whined with the conviction of a man who’s been personally betrayed.
I told him, “Fine, we’ll get your scissors from the camper—after we clean the playroom.” And wouldn’t you know it? He cleaned like Speedy Gonzales on Red Bull.
I asked his mom where the scissors were. “In my office on the shelf.” So not in the camper at all—liar, liar, preschool pants on fire. I handed him the EXACT scissors he demanded and he said (shocker) “These aren’t mine.” Kid, I will eat these scissors if they aren’t yours.
He finally settled into cutting paper and coloring (while I watched like a hawk because, reminder: HE’S THREE and wielding blades). You already know about the handcuffs and Big Bird getting arrested, so I won’t even go there. Just another day in the crime-ridden world of toddler imagination.
His dad rolled in around 1:30 p.m., and I practically handed off custody and announced I was going to nap like I’d just returned from war. I was emotionally drained from Jack and still mentally exhausted from worrying about Waylon, the Ugg-boot-chewing dog who now resides in my home because the camper is too small for his majestic chaos.
So I nap. Or try. But between Sarah texting every 30 minutes about the dog, my sister calling like we’re giving away gold bars, and scam calls trying to renew my nonexistent car warranty—I gave up. Productivity? Ha. Cute idea.
I planned for a quiet night. Hot shower. Fresh jammies. Maybe a book. Then BOOM—plot twist.
My son-in-law calls with a casual “Hey, some kid tried to do a wheelie on a four-wheeler and wrecked into the fence.”
The same fence he previously wrecked with a trailer. That poor fence. That fence has seen things. May it rest in pieces.
He says the kid’s okay, but in the back of my mind, I’m like, “Wait… is that the little hellion who backfires his four-wheeler in front of my house so I think it’s a drive-by?” Because if so… karma’s got four wheels and no helmet.
Now I’m in the yard, in pajamas. My yard, my rules. I’ve mowed in PJs, I’ve probably hosted an HOA violation or two. Who cares?
I’m talking to my son-in-law when my daughter pulls up, crouches behind a tree stump like she’s reenacting a scene from Call of Duty: Toddler Ops. We exchange a look like, “Is she on something?” Then she runs at Jack, who’s nowhere near the stump, and misses entirely. A+ sneak attack.
She returns from the car, this time clutching her hand with a dish towel and a dramatic “I think I need stitches.” We laughed. Of course we did. Sarah’s dramatic? Noooo, never.
She says she cut her finger trying to remove a tag from a dog toy with a keychain knife. I’m sorry, what? Did the toy fight back? My son-in-law offers her some Gorilla Glue—because naturally, this house doubles as an urgent care and hardware store. We are laughing because we don’t think she is serious.
But I, being the good mother, get dressed (thankful I’d already showered) and we jump in her car because it’s faster and has better A/C. Priorities.
We hit the road. Sarah’s squeezing her finger, groaning in pain, and I’m like, “Put on your damn glasses and help me spot deer.” Because nothing says “stress test” like driving 70 mph through deer country with a bleeding child screaming about flappy skin.
She’s moaning about blood oozing while I’m reminiscing about the time I puked on my dad in the car . You know, casual girl talk.
Then comes the slow driver. 20 mph. In town. I’m ready to go full Mario Kart on them but Sarah, now revived from blood loss, screams, “DRIVE!” Her blood sugar’s back and so is the sass.
We get to the hospital. It’s packed. Four ambulances. Lights flashing like we pulled into a rave. I whip around near the ambulance bay and she’s screeching, “You can’t go this way!” I respond with, “EMERGENCY! I DO WHAT I WANT!” until I realize… yeah okay, she’s right. Had to reverse outta there like Austin Powers in that hallway scene. Thank God for backup cameras.
Inside, she’s all “Just glue it up, I got things to do.”
We get in the room, it’s a closet. Ok now Im dizzy. Small spaces? Not my vibe. Then I get an idea. When I broke my finger and dislocated 2 of them she took a pic of us at the ER. I thought I would return the favor and paste it all over social media. Serves her right
Doctor Barbie shows up—looks about 12 years old but speaks like an adult, so I guess she passed the test. Sarah tells her to patch her up so she can GTFO. They start discussing blood and flappy skin, and I’m trying not to faint until Sarah holds up a kitchen towel like a war trophy. Thanks. I’ll treasure the memory.
I spot my yellow-and-white check kitchen towel. Covered in blood. My good towel. The one that matches my porcelain hook. And she’s BLEEDING ON IT.
She offers to wash it. I told her, “No, just keep it. Free gift with injury.”
They glue her together like a Dollar Tree craft, and we head out. Her finger’s “throbbing,” but she needs Walmart. And food. And more attention.
By 11 p.m., I’m home, wired, watching Dollar Tree crafting videos—the ones where they hot glue 47 wine corks to a mason jar and call it farmhouse chic. I figured they’d knock me out.
Nope. 1:40 a.m., still awake.
And then… crack of dawn… here comes Jack.
Talking about handcuffs.
And donuts.
And I’m out of coffee.
Send help.
