My Great Idea for the day is this: a full-body helmet for those accident prone people in the family.
Take, for instance, my husband. Every time the man spends more than three minutes in his workshop, he loses a pint of blood and gains a new showpiece for his scar collection. Or some body part flies off into a pile of sawdust. I've learned never to ask what color stain he used on a particular finished piece. I'm not sure I really want to know what he means by "bloodwood."
Or take, for instance, my son, Sasquatch. He's always been a bit, shall we say, adventurous. Someday I'll have to write about the time he, at age two, rode his tricycle down the 70mph road in front of our house. It's getting worse as his testosterone level increases. Now he likes to show off for girls, risking life and limb so some little blonde eleven year old will roll her eyes at his stupidity.
Last night he wanted to show me how fast he can go on the mini bike. This worried me more than a little. His first mini bike experience was to hop on and ride it directly into the corner of our brick home. Apparently someone ("someone" here means, my husband, Mr. "We Don't Need No Stinkin' Speed Limits") forgot to show Sasquatch the location of the brake. Fortunately, my son was wearing a hockey helmet, which is a comfort only if you have never seen the toothless, battered faces of NHL players.
So on the bike Sasquatch climbed, and down the driveway he headed, leaving a cloud of dust wafting the way of the nervous spectator. Five seconds later, the bike was down and the rider had a sneaker full of blood. Long story short: eight stitches for the gash on his lower leg. Our family's insurance card should be mounted on a plaque in the local emergency room, since we have been major contributors to the new facility.
So here we are the next day. I'm lobbying for full-body helmets that are also fire-proof, and he's excited about what a great story he has to tell to that little blonde eleven year old, and how he's going to make her squeal when he shows her the wound. I'm thinking that the odds of him of getting a driver's license at age seventeen are about as good as my chances of actually having my whole house clean, at once, ever in my lifetime.