I was driving home down the highway after a long day at my business. When my cell phone rang, it was my wife, “Where the hell are you?” I calmly answered, “On the highway driving home.” She screamed, “Dylan’s got his arm stuck in a toy, and I can’t get it out. I’m calling 911 and hung up.” I pressed down on the accelerator.
As I turned the corner onto my street and drove toward my house, all I could see was the flashing lights of the ambulance, the fire trucks, and a police car. My front door was open and uniformed people were entering and exiting. I followed one inside.
Dylan looked like a Japanese anime robot with a two-foot rocket launching tube attached to his arm. It was just his favorite toy at the time. It made noise and had red balls that traveled around and up and down. Only on this particular day, he reached down through the middle to get a ball, and his arm got stuck.
All men hate to see those three ill-fated words, “Some assembly required.” on this particular day, it was the opposite “Some disassembly required.” I worked with the paramedic and the fireman that lived up the street the first on the scene. We got him out in a minute or two. And I thanked everyone for coming and helping out.
The following week when the smalltown newspaper came out, I read my favorite section, the police blotter. At first, I didn’t know if I should be happy or horrified. I settled for happiness as I screamed up to Sharon, “Hey Honey, Dylan made the police blotter, and he’s only two.”
“What?” was her response before coming down to read it herself. A week ago, what freaked her out was now a crazy badge of honor for our firstborn.
International Award Winning Speaker, Whiskey Sommelier, Marketer