This post is filed under sarcasm. Don’t worry too much, it’s not that bad, but I just needed something to document what happened on Sunday. Everyone is fine, nobody dies in this story.
This Sunday, my son got shot in the park.
There are certain things a father never wants to hear. One of the first things that comes to mind is the dreadful “I’m pregnant” – which is kind of ironic because unless you ever heard it, you can’t really be a father – and speaking for myself I would rank the “Someone shot me with a gun in the park” pretty much at the top of the list.
On the positive side, the fact that my son was the one telling me he got shot, while walking and breathing and crying (just a little) meant that he wasn’t dead.
But he had been shot. By a BB gun that shoots plastic pellets. Thrice. And the welts he had? Those looked painful. Luckily, had had been shot twice on the left foot and once in the back. nothing near the head or the face. Nothing that was going to leave a permanent mark. Nothing that would change his life drastically.
Nothing that would take him away from me.