So, this is what I think: that Holly, the red-headed, rough-and-tumble, cancer surviving, scarily smart 8-year-old who thinks she's big enough to push me in the pool, has decided to remind us all that trips to the hospital are really, truly, as they always have been, units of measure for just how great your childhood is going.
Holly came home with a cast on her right ankle last night, which I promptly signed, while she told her story for the umpteenth time of how she got it.
Seems she was at a little indoor play park with her summer camp when she spied a bunch of her friends leaping off an eight-foot platform onto a big inflatable below. So she followed suit, except she caught the landing (apparently) a little differently from the rest of them. Just a sprain, they said, wrapping it and issuing three foot crutches at the hospital. Stay off it for a few days.
Picture me getting flustered and saying, "Holly, if all of your friends decided to jump off a bridge, would you do it, too?"
And then picture her imperial condescension as she reclaims her Sharpie and replies, "Clearly."
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