So, Tom thinks he can dance.

But he can't.

I'll explain.

When I got up Wednesday morning about 7:30, I poured myself some Grape Nuts, and settled my rear deep into the leather cushions of the family room sofa. I was planning to be there awhile. I had two weeks of So You Think You Can Dance to watch. I don't know how I let myself get so far in arrears. It is the only show I Tivo this summer. I mean, besides the House Hunters International re-runs, of course. And I don't even re-watch those, unless the potential buyers are looking to renovate a ruin, and then I'm glued to the couch. I'm a total sucker for a ruin. Or France. I'm also a sucker for France. Have you seen the one where the American woman and her German lover are looking for a 3 bedroom flat in Paris' 6th Arrondissement? No, no, sorry, I've gotten sidetracked again.

When I watch SYTYCD, my kids get wild looks in their eyes and start moving. They can't help themselves, they can't keep still. They usually start out dancing, but it quickly degrades into yelling and wrestling and somersaults and such. About 1 week into the dance marathon (i.e. 9:20 am), Tommy starts body slamming Ross. Repeatedly, but in a friendly, inviting sort of way. Ross is playing legos and mostly ignores Tommy's overtures. So I pipe up: "Ross, why don't you put away the legos and cavort with Tommy?" Tommy can't wait, though. While Ross is on his way to put the legos up on the shelf above the TV, Tom lunges at him again. Sadly, he misses Ross, and ends up throwing himself headlong into the corner of the rocking chair.

And thus began our troubles.

But before I get into all that: Let's talk about the rocking chair. Is this the same rocking chair corner with which I collided as a ten-month-old baby, (who had no business walking, much less running, about the house and crashing into furniture), leaving a small pock-like scarred indentation in the center of my forehead, still visible today if I hold my head just so in noon-day sunlight? Yes. The very same chair.

But wait. I'll bet you don't know this chair's provenance. While I was still a babe in utero, my Father found the rocking chair on the curb one day in East Lansing, Michigan. It was painted green, and not in good shape. It had been left out for trash collection. Dad took it home, worked some magic on it (took off green paint, tightened up the joints, etc.), and gave it to my Mom for to rock me in. It was only one year later that the chair nearly brained me. Somebody, who knew these things, told my parents the rocking chair is well over 100 years old. So now we know, the ancient chair (given to me to rock my own offspring) is haunted and attacks babies. No wonder it was left on the curb. How many other young victims of its sharp corners have there been over the past 1.5 centuries?

So, Tommy is gushing blood. From his head. From his nose. The kids are fuh-reaking out. I get everyone presentable, drop the elder three at my parents', and head to the ER. They get us in fairly quickly, put four stitches in his head, send us on our way.

In the meantime, my sister Jen's foot went gimpy, and she was hobbling around her house with a pogo stick for a crutch. (Which isn't ideal, because unlike regular crutches, it has a spring in it, which moves up and down depending on pressure applied). So Mom picked up Jen's oldest two, and takes the whole lot of them to Chuck E. Cheese for like 3 hours. Jen's foot is much better, now. Don't feel any obligation to send her any "so sorry you're a gimp" cards. If you are really itching to send a card to someone, send me one that says "So sorry you aren't going to Cabo again tomorrow instead of your sister Jen, who's foot is miraculously healed."

Yesterday, Tommy's stitches came out. On their own, or Tom picked at them. Can't know which. There is a curly blue string hanging out of Tom's forehead which he won't leave alone (could you? I couldn't). I didn't want to go back to the ER, because I found out it cost me $500 bucks (ER is a deductible, not co-pay, dangit). So this morning I saw the PA at the pediatrician's office who said, "no, so sorry; it is too late to restitch. I'm not sure why the ER didn't make knots at every stitch. Or glue it. And Tommy has really dark skin, so the scar could be pretty gnarly (okay, he didn't say gnarly. I just wanted to say gnarly). If it were my kid, I'd take him down to see Dr. Goldstein, the pediatric plastic surgeon."

Went home by way of Taco Bell to collect my kids from my parents, again. A woman in line with them told Sam he had the best hair she'd ever seen (and this is with full bedhead, cause I hadn't brushed it today), and gave him a buck, just for growing it out of his head. Then she realized he had two siblings with him, and they got paid, too. For being related to that head of hair, I guess.

I'm feeling kind of stressed out by all the medical drama, and the fact that after all this his head wound is still gaping wide open. So I honked at an ambulance for cutting me off (it had no lights or sirens, though), and guess what? It didn't make me feel better, not one whit.

When I got home, I went in to use the W.C., and sat down in Sam's pee, because Sam won't lift the toilet lid. EVER. So while I sat there, in the pee, I thought about teaching him an object lesson where I get Ross to pee on the seat, then have Sam sit in it. But then I realized he'd probably remember it when he was grown, and need therapy. Plus, it just isn't nice, making people sit in pee. I should know.

Tommy also re-learned to climb out of his crib this yesterday. He's known how for ages, but he finally put it together that the ability to shimmy up and over crib sides equals potentially no naps, ever again. EVER. So then I had to go buy a baby jail (crib tent); but the one I bought and brought home from Babies r Us, for the low, low price of $75, had been used by someone to house a Siberian Tiger for approximately 3 years. Or a filthy baby with long, sharp fingernails. It had 6 inch holes in the netting, rips, tears, broken poles, and was covered in hair and dirt. So then I had to pack it and everybody up and go back for another one. Which finally worked. And Tommy is taking a nap in it. Right this second. And no, I'm not embarrassed that I lock up my baby. He's obviously a danger to himself: Look at his forehead for proof.

I love nap time. Maybe I'll go finish watching So You Think You Can Dance. Since it got preempted Wednesday, by all the blood. Then I'll call the plastic surgeon. Who maybe I should have called first thing. Live and learn, eh?