"Oh my God!"

Hearing my wife Lala yell from the bathroom, I tore back there expecting to view an item off our slight tragedies menu: spilled bathroom cleanser, an unsightly and never previously spotted mole, poor commode aim from one of the male members of the family. Instead, my son London rocked on his heels like a little Al Jolson, his self-applied black face paint . left over from a class party we had just returned (escaped) from. But London wasn't on his knees singing "My Mammy" even though his body was rigid before his dear (and upset) mother.

"Have you seen this?" LaIa peeled back London's upper lip to expose a deep and bloodless cut that resembled what I imagined a shaved hedgehog's ...

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