It's a wonder our children (or us, for that matter) ever make it to the ripe old age of say....five.

We've had one accident after another this weekend, and I've got to tell you, I honestly am shocked that our generation is still alive, and functioning, despite not living in the era of bike helmets, elbow and knee pads, and overprotective parents who are actually outside when their children are.

This weekend alone, we had a major big wheel wipeout, complete with a goose egg on the melon, the size of a walnut. Or larger. Hard to say as he won't let me touch it. Okay, so it was done while flying down my nieghbors driveway, and yes, I should be completely thankful that he only came near to hitting the boat hitch, instead of say, knocking out all his teeth by actually hitting it. I was hardly relieved, until I watched, helpless, as he plummeted down the street we live on, thankfully into a cul-de-sac, with his little girlfriend that lives across the street.

And landed face first, into a large, gaping wound in the side of the road. Some might call it a pot hole; I personally think it could be the pre-K sets version of the Gates To Hell. Which, if you heard the pair of them screaming, you'd think something from the other side had grabbed hold of them...her father and I were laying bets of just who was the instigator here - which child was trying to impress the other??

The jury's still out.

So far, Road: 2. Hunter: 0.

Next up? Digging. Minus our shoes. Because clearly, mom wouldn't have a clue what she was talking about...when he picked up that sharp edged shovel and slammed it into his bare toes. Two band-aids, and a predinner popsicle later, we're back at it, this time, courting total disaster: an overtired, already injured child, discovering that you can indeed, pinch your hands in the mailbox if you slam the door shut in frustrated denial that there is Nothing For You.

Note To Self: Hunter is no longer fooled by the nebulously addressed Dear Occupant mail.

So, I'm hanging up the towel. Or trowel, as the case truely is; the plants can be finished tomorrow, when I face the Final Hurdle: the totally uncordinated Step-Daughter (think: she trips over lint) at the Jam Fest Cheerleading Competition, where she is the top of the pyramid.

Keep your fingers crossed that the only blood curdling screams come from my Inner Mama Voice, and not from any child of mine.