Friday night as my son was getting ready to leave for his Chicago trip–sniff!–he’d put on the wrong shirt.  We’re hurrying, making sure he’s got everything and I point this out to him.

“That shirt is for tomorrow on the plane.  You’re supposed to wear this one,”I say, gesturing to the one on the bed.

Son grumbles, whips shirt over the top of his head and smacks the ceiling fan HARD.  Ceiling fan starts wobbling, making terrible noises. 

“Cut it off!” I scream, afraid the whole damned thing is about to come off the ceiling.

Son reaches over, flips the switch into the off position, then reaches up to stop the blades.  A blade then FLYS OFF AND CLOCKS ME RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES.

Seriously.

Son panicks, I cuss, dust flys everywhere.  I have a lovely lump, but am otherwise unharmed.

“Sorry, Momma,” he says miserably.

Ice pack clamped to my forehead, I just smile.  “Better my head than yours.  But you have to stop growing.” 

Happy Memorial Day, everyone!