Maybe this is how Jackson Pollock got his start?
Scene: 3-year-old birthday party at Fort Greene Park, lush hillside, under the shade of a beautiful tree.
Players: 3-year-old, her friends, parents, and friends' parents
It was a pleasant Saturday, late morning, up near the giant phallus, I mean, monument, in Fort Greene Park. We were all enjoying being done with school drop-off for the summer; sharing stories of where the kids would be in school next year.
Following bubbles, face painting, and pizza, it was time to beat the papier mache bull to shit and watch as the kids dove over one another for toys and candy. So we armed the petite party-goers with a plastic bat and let them at it, encouraging a beat down on the defenseless paper bull. One kid and another gave it their best shots, putting a few dents in the pinata.
It was clear after about four rounds, however, that the minis just weren't strong enough to crack the bull. So the adults took over, fathers and mothers, in an increasingly awkward attempt to just get the fucking thing split already.
Finally, Mother of the Birthday Girl, in her, like, 17th month of pregnancy, took matters into her very strong hands and had at the bull, focusing on its already-tenderized ass. I held the papered mess in place by holding onto one of the horns so the massacre would end quickly.
Only Mom stepped in a bit, and brought the stick down with such a whizzing force that it whistled as its tip caught not only the bull's back, but my knuckles as well.
Reader, I have not felt such pain since I was 10 centimeters dilated and pushing an 8-pound boy out my hoo-haw. And at least then I knew I'd get a son out of the deal.
I fell to my knees, dropped my hand in the stainless steel tub of ice from whence I had recently plucked myself a beer, and willed myself to stay silent, lest I traumatize my older son, who had caught wind that Something Was Wrong with Mommy, a state of affairs that generally arises after a long day spent intervening in Hot Wheels spats.
The tears spilled noiselessly, and I hoped there was nothing broken, because, seriously? I AM GOING ON VACATION IN A WEEK...and I will drag my gimpy-ass right hand along and drive with my non-gimpy left hand ALL THE WAY TO THE CATSKILLS if that's what I have to do.
As it happened, there is nothing broken or fractured. Swollen, yes; scabbed up, yes; MAJORLY bruised, yes. But nothing cracked.
I'm thinking of just telling people I got in a fight. They'd be more apt to believe that anyway.