This is how it was supposed to go:
Swinging from the branches of the willow tree in Central Park, with our best friends, like the girls on the flying trapeze.
And this is how it went:
Please don't call my mother and tell her her grandchild has been maimed in a small circus accident. The girl is fine. But we have war wounds to show off. And the story to re-tell a couple hundred times. It all gets bigger and more dangerous and more spectacular every time we tell it. We are awesome in our own minds. Our black eye is proof - Fosters are tough.
Hope you get to swing from a few willow branches this holiday weekend.