I was pottering about in the kitchen this evening when Son joins me and says, "You aren't gonna believe this."
He had been listening to the police scanner for a county north of us. Some fool of a woman had called the police. The reason? Two kids were playing outside. She could hear their voices. One of the kids said, "Don't push me." The other said, "Ouch."
That was it. Don't push me and ouch. Really? That warranted a call to the police? Amazing. I remember times when, if I hadn't known better, I would have sworn that my kids were all murdering one another. Of course, there were the threats of mayhem if they didn't Stop. That. Fighting. Right. Now.
That got Son and I to talking about things that happened when he and his siblings were kids. Like the time when he was about 12 years old and was trail riding his mini motorcycle with his Dad, who was on a full size dirt bike. The front tire blew. Son went off into the brush. Got banged up a bit.
Then: He climbed out of the brush, dusted himself off and wheeled his bike back to the cabin. Washed off the scratches, applied a couple of bandaids and went back out to play.
Now: If there were witnesses to the accident, the police and Social Services would be called. Along with an ambulance. Charges for child endangerment would be filed. In the coming months lawyers, judges and a lot of money would be involved. Son would be hospitalized for observation. And both bikes would likely be hauled off to the impound lot, never to be seen again.
And there are those who wonder why we long for yesterday.