“What’s wrong with you?” Tracey asked me this morning.

I was limping and moaning quietly (just quietly enough for her to be sure to hear) whenever my foot hit the ground.

“Sports injury,” I told her.

She wasn’t the first person I’d told either. Her mother, her father, her sister, our oldest two kids – they’d all heard how I was suffering and how the top of my foot was aching.

“What sport?” she wanted to know. I don’t blame her for asking. The only sport I seem keen to be involved in lately is sexercise.

It’s not unusual for Christmas to leave a house full of happy and exhausted children, and one injured parent in its wake.

Usually my Christmas injuries are the result of opening toys heat locked in plastic which requires a mig welder, engineers degree and two teams of opposing horses to remove, or paper cuts from boxes. I inevitably end up bleeding on something and sport cuts then scabs on my fingers well into the new year. It’s not easy to maintain a rugged, fatherly, testosterone fueled persona when you’re squealing ‘ouch’ and then sucking on your finger because of a paper cut.

This year, however, I must say I’ve been impressed with the step down from Fort Knox toy packaging security has taken. Most of the toys displayed in boxes were held in place by string and either easily cut or untied.

Unfortunately, though, I did sustain a foot injury from one of my kids’ toys.

I limped some more and hissed in pain as I gathered my strength to say another sentence to my wife: she almost waited patiently for me to speak. “From when I went all skaterboy yesterday on the balcony,” I grimaced at her.

Tracey looked at me incredulously, then snort chuckled. “Skaterboy?” The complete lack of sympathy etched into her face was almost as painful as my foot. When that look did finally leave her face it was only so it could be replaced by another which told me how pathetic I am. “You mean the two laps of the balcony you did on the princess scooter Santa gave the girls?”

I stand corrected, there have been two injuries this Christmas, but only one of them is physical.

I’m just glad Tracey wasn’t within earshot when I was telling my story to her mother.


When not typing away over here and checking his stats every two minutes

Bruce Devereaux hangs out at his ‘BIG FAMILY little income’ Facebook Page.

’raising a family on little more than laughs’

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