Maybe I need to reflect on the very real possibility that I'm just a bit salty about this whole thing because, when I was playing sports in school, our wound care consisted of an old toolbox full of glorified duct tape, an ice machine that might have a few cubes but only if the Pepsi wasn't selling well that night, and no shortage of dads who would loiter around the bench laughing at your grotesquely swollen ankle telling you to "walk it off".
I have a theory that Moses didn’t mind so much that he was not going to be allowed into the promised land.
As amazing as parenthood can be, I have been convinced for some time that our children conspire against us.
When we finally got to the hotel last night, it was like they had worked up a community theater version of Oliver!. Kids were dancing everywhere, running artfully across counters and jumping on tables, evidently responding to music that must have been playing inside their own heads.