The other night you stepped on one of your diecast cars; you know, the ones that make crossing your bedroom like navigating a mine field? Well, you stepped on one. Real good, too. Soft part of the foot and everything.
You spent the next minute hopping on one foot; eyebrows up, mouth an ‘O’, contemplating for the first time the unlikely correlation between not picking up your toys and pain.
I said to your Daddy, “Is this poetic justice or just justice?”
He replied, “Just Justice. With a side of hilarious.”
And then, Buddy, you jumped on him; knees first.