The Lad is home with the husband today. Beastie woke up with matty, red-rimmed eyes. We're out of the expensive, made-of-unicorn-tears, miraculous eye drops that clear up pink eye (or anything I suspect is pink eye), so we kept him home. If your child has ever had pink eye, you know it is an irritating illness: highly contagious so the child has to stay home, but not really affecting the child. So, instead of lying pitifully in bed with a fever, the child is zooming around the house while you're trying to work, scattering papers and demanding food. (And, if you're me and a little bit of a hypochrondiac, the child is getting WAY too close to you with his oozing eyes.)
Anyway. The husband is is a wonderful man for staying home with The Beast.
This is an email I just got from quarantine:
(The Lad) playing with the phone: Hi papa, blankies, Go Bruce, Daddy GOOOOOO!!!!! Go
Bruce! Go Bruce! Boom boom!
I suspect he is talking about baseball (Bruce refers to Cincinnati Reds player Jay Bruce. Baseball is never just baseball for The Beast. It is "ball Bruce.") and his fall last night.
While waiting for the husband to get home, the boys went out to play. They were playing peekaboo, one of them on top of a storage bin/bench on the edge of our patio and the other bouncing up from behind a nearby bush. The Boy managed to truly surprise The Lad on his last turn, and in his shock, The Lad fell off the bench backward, landing flat on his back on our concrete stone patio. He's got a nasty knot on the back of his head, as he told the husband: "BUMP! Ow. (Boy) bump! Ow." Apparently, his grandpa needs to hear the story, too.