Alistair in the ER, Oliver the EMT

Two weeks ago, the kind of accident I was afraid would happen if I didn't spend every spare minute with my kids, instead of blogging about them, happened anyway. I had just gotten home from work and decided to check my email one more time before entering the mosh pit that used to be our family room. While I was upstairs I heard my wife cry out and ran down to find Alistair with a deep gash above his eyebrow. Oliver reported that Alistair had climbed onto the sofa, then plummeted head-first into a toy piano.

After four hours in the emergency room, we would have been grateful for any help at all, even Hugh Laurie insulting us as Dr. House, and did not think to ask for a plastic surgeon instead of an exhausted-looking resident. Alistair got seven stitches and will have a somewhat rougher scar for our stupidity.

The $300 Popsicle

The last time Oliver was too sick to eat--with rotovirus, for which a vaccine has now been developed--we tried giving him ginger ale, clementines, ice cream, water with a dropper. Finally, we took him to the emergency room and he perked right up when given a purple popsicle, for which we later paid $300.

Now he can self-diagnose: I'm broken. My body hurts. It's hard to cough in the night.