here thar be asphalt

At the edge of the park behind our home is an asphalt area with basketball hoops, some broken-down pic-nic tables, and tennis courts. It is an area of crooked railroad ties, cragged asphalt, and the occasional broken bottle. Metaphorically is the chaos lurking around the edge of our play area of orderliness. It is the edges of our map beyond which lie dragons where no one under 36 inches should venture for fear of life and limb. It is the unknown regions of the world, nay, of existence.

David loves it over there. He likes walking along ties, leaping down the steps, examining rocks, etc.

Well, today, our little Captain Cook got bit by the dragons--a stumble on the steps and a face plant on the asphalt, his first true sacrifice to his spirit of adventure.

Update: I totally forgot to tell you the rest of the story.

So, he comes back home with grandma Susie bloodied and crying and we get him cleaned up. He immediately wants to return to the scene of the accident and give the offending steps a good scolding, which they do.

When he returns, I fix him lunch. He has, or rather had, this habit of putting chunks of food in his mouth that are entirely too large to manage. This, combined with a gag reflex that is as delicate as a codependent's sense of self-respect, makes for explosive family fun. He attempts to swallow a piece of grilled-cheese sandwich the size of his fist, gags, and barfs on himself.

So his clothes are now stained with blood and vomit and I think to myself, "we could take him down by the university and lay him on the lawn of one of the fraternities. They would surely mistake him for one of their own, take him in, and raise him."

later, frat fans.