Yesterday afternoon, we packed up the car with pool-type-stuff, stopped at the grocery store for pasta salad and potato salad, and headed out to a pool party.

It was through a Christian singles group I'm a part of, and it was at one of the girl's apartment complex. The kids love to swim, and they had all of the good time I expected them to have, right up until the very end.

Those of you who know me well know that I'm very cautious of my kids around the water. They can both swim, thuogh; the pool was only 4.5 feet deep at it's deepest; and there were lots of other parents outside; so when i had to go potty, or when I wanted more soda, I just went inside the pool house and did it, rather than drag the kids out to poolside while I went in. I still felt a terrible pang of guilt each time I did it, though.

The kids were fine.

There were probably about six other kids in the pool, all aged from about seven to fourteen. They were playing catch, jumping in, playing with the noodles, generally being good and just enjoying the pool. It was no problem. But still, I worried.

Right at the end of the evening, as I was at poolside, trying to find the two pair of goggles we had brought, Dylan tripped. "Your son just got hurt," a friend said to me. I could have almost reached out and grabbed him, he was so close to me when it happened. But I heard the little Dylan-shreik that meant he was hurt, and I pulled him from the edge of the pool and into my arms.

He had tripped on a step getting into the pool, and he got a little road-rash on the left side of his back. It's one of those things that could have happened no matter where I was, and there's no way I could have prevented it. I still felt like complete dog shit, though, and I finished gathering up our stuff and left with the kids.

On the way home, I cried. Not a lot, just a little. I told the kids how sorry I was and how much I loved them. It was Rain who told me it wasn't my fault, that it wouldn't have happened anyways, that I stress too much about them getting hurt. She told me tomorrow, Mommy--we're going to give you a break. It's going to be your day off.

We got home, put a little dressing on Dylan's boo-boo. It wasn't bleeding, but I wanted to cover it the first night anyways. Dylan looked at it in the mirror, and he informed me it looked like a smiley face--and, sure enough, there was the colon and the right parenthesis. The three of us cuddled into bed and fell right to sleep.

The next morning, unbelieveably, I stayed in bed until almost ten. Sure, I woke up a couple times, but the kids played a game or two and let me sleep. Rain had asked the night before if she could make me breakfast, and she did--a couple scrambled eggs. Even though they were a tiny bit runny, they were absolutely wonderful, and I ate every bite. We lazied around and watched Olympic Women's Basketball together. It was awesome.