Jets v. Sharks

Baby D and I got into a knife fight yesterday.

It’s not as bad as it sounds. Someone — and I guess that would be me — left the silver out where he could reach and he opened the little drawer and got himself out a knife. He then proceeded to RUN around the house where the first adult type figure he ran into was me. He decided he not going to give up this knife without a fight, and I’m pretty sure I lost as I now have a small gash across my palm.

I’d never been in a knife fight before. I don’t care to again real soon either.

Not that I use this skill so much these days, but I had a male friend (fine, he was my boyfriend) who taught me to be on the lookout for bar fights. When you see the looks being exchanged, the words being uttered, or someone looking like they’re going to throw up or pass out, time to leave or, at least, move yourself to the other side of the room. It’s sort of silly when I write it out, but during my party girl phase it was really a handy little skill.

Apparently I haven’t quite mastered translating this old skill into something useful in my present life. When you’re the Mom you can’t dive across the room and hide, you have to wrestle away the knife. That’s all there is to it.

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