There are certain stories that, when a person starts telling them, you know they are not going to end well.
Today, Wesley came home from walking Lucy. That is not unusual in and of itself, but he had left for the walk with Ryan and returned without him. And then he started talking.
"Ok, Ryan isn't with me because he was walking along, swinging the bag of dog poop..."
Oh, boy, this isn't going to end well, I thought.
"...and the bag slipped out of his hand, flew up, and got stuck in a tree..."
WHAT?!
"...so he got a stick and started poking at the bag, trying to get it down..."
Oh, please don't tell me my youngest child is out on the sidewalk covered in dog poop.
"...and he got the bag down, but then he fell on the sidewalk..."
Not in the dog poop. We have another Thanksgiving dinner to go to. Please not in the dog poop.
"...and he hurt his knee and started crying."
I finally interrupted. "Wesley! Does your brother need help?"
"Um, yeah. I think so."
The good news is that Ryan was not hurt and the bag of poop stayed safely closed. The bad news is that it took Wesley forever to actually get the message delivered to us. Urgency is not his middle name.
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