it was an ordinary afternoon. So ordinary that when the boys came rushing up to me with the battered old golf balls they had found in the bushes I was actually excited too. “Can I get the stick things from the garage?” asked Z. Translation: Golf Clubs. We bought youth clubs a couple years back at a garage sale, but except for a short stint of lessons for Mia, they have mostly sat unused. “Sure!” I say, thinking that while I am busy making lunch and have a clear eye on what they are doing, they can’t get into too much trouble. Enter J.R. who sees what’s going on in the yard and exclaims, “Why are the boys playing with the golf clubs? This is not a good idea.”

“Why not? I’m watching them,” I retort.

“Have you LIVED here? What are you thinking?”

“Well, they’ve been having fun and it’s time to eat anyway, so see, it’s all fine.” I say with a smile.

It WAS fine. They had taken some swings, hit some balls, and only in the direction I had instructed them. Later that afternoon I left to go to the grocery store.  J.R. was holding down the fort, sitting on the couch, watching a little TV, while the boys were in the back yard. When I returned, the night continued on, uneventful. Then,  J.R. turns to me and says, “While you were gone, guess what came flying through the sliding glass door and smacked me on my leg?” I try not to laugh. I laugh anyway.  We keep our sliding doors wide open so the dog (and the kids) can go in and out easily. Sure enough, Z drove a clean ball straight into the house and it landed right. under. J.R.’s jewels. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.



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