Which is the less-appealing alternative:
–to have my husband, who is still on crutches with his sprained ankle, be one of only two adults to take a bunch of Boy Scouts on a camping trip to Maryland this weekend,
OR
–to have Big Brother, who is 14 and a great fan of MythBusters, interesting experiments and practical jokes, be home on April Fool’s Day?

Last night Big Daddy came in from work limping. He has a desk job, so I knew it wasn’t a work injury. He suspected a sprained ankle and after dinner I ran to the drug store to get him a brace.

This morning he couldn’t put any weight on his foot at all. He had to crawl down the stairs backward, and I ran another errand: to get a pair of crutches so he could go to the emergency room to be treated. There were quite a few things already on my plate today, none of which involved being home or spending extended periods of time hanging around emergency-room waiting areas, and some of which I could not easily cancel, so my father-in-law graciously agreed to chauffer his son to the hospital.

Meanwhile a neighbor scrounged up a walker from another neighbor and brought it over. It turns out that it was a sprain, and Big Daddy now must use the crutches as well as wear an air cast and stay off his foot.

But all the orthopedic equipment that has made its way into our living room has provided endless amusement for the kids. Since the crutches are adjustable, Big Brother has been tweaking the height and testing his prowess with crutches, not to mention planning their future use as pole-vaulting tools (should I invest in that personal X-ray machine now?) All the kids are enjoying the walker, even Little Brother who is shorter than the hand grips. The boys have figured out how to attach Little Brother’s favorite toy sword to the walker. Big Brother and Middle Sister hoist themselves up on the hand grips and try to vault over the front of the walker (I definitely need that X-ray machine!) And Little Brother has resorted to faking an injury so he can have a bandage Just Like Daddy.

The upside here is that Little Brother has had a bit of an anatomy lesson, since just yesterday when I picked him up under the arms, he yelled out, “OW! My ankle hurts!” The kid didn’t know his ankle from his armpit. I think he’s clear on it now, though.

Did you ever notice that gossip is often described in terms usually reserved for food?

We talk about getting the “scoop,” or “dishing,” and we call a particularly interesting story “juicy.”

Saint Francis de Sales believed that gossiping (and judging others) is the worst sin. Perhaps that’s because it’s Poison.

Little Brother proudly announced, “Mom! You need to see what Dad did!”

Dad helped him get dressed this morning. He looked fine to me. He had sweat pants, a sweatshirt, socks and sneakers–just fine for a Saturday.

Pulling up his sweatshirt, he gleefully displayed the evidence of what Dad had done: “Look! No T-shirt! Only sweatshirt, over belly!”

I remember that when I was around Middle Sister’s age (10 or so), sometimes my dad would take us kids to a church in a neighboring town while Mom was at some meeting or other. Dad would have some time to kill, and we’d walk around the neighborhood, visit a park, and at some point wind up in the church.

One of us would ask him, “Are we here for church?”

“No, let’s just say hi to God.”

That was an amazing idea. You can go into a church, and just visit. You can just let God know you’re there, say a prayer, light a candle. Dad would let us walk around a little, look at the statues, kneel down for a moment by the tabernacle.

The church would be quiet. Most of the lights would be out, but it wasn’t a spooky darkness. It was kind of comfortable, actually, kind of the way you feel at night when it’s dark, and you’re nice and warm and sleepy, and you know you’re safe. After all, even if the church is nearly dark, and nearly empty, it is still full–because God is there, just waiting for you to come in and say hi.