Remember last year...my son had an accident, splitting his knee wide open? The whole incident the result of a flailing dive after a football thrown by my husband.

The injury left him unable to play in his hockey playoff game, unable to attend tryouts for next season, going to class with a footstool and limping for weeks? (Ed. note: His legs = toothpicks, with knees)

Fast forward to this past Sunday.

A friendly game of basketball between my husband and son. The boy goes to make a move with the basketball and my husband, doing some defensive mojo - slams into my son's hand, jamming his thumb knuckle to the point where blood spurted out from his nail bed. Immediate swelling. No tears, but lots of pain. Lots.

Twelve hours later it's bruised and swollen. He can move it, a little. A nurse friend of ours says, "It's not broken but WOW that looks baaaad". Thanks, nurse friend.

And guess what...once again, it happens the day before hockey tryouts.

The silver lining? My boy and I are giving my husband so much grief, nothing like a good guilt trip to keep your spirits up...

Our fictional versions of the story include:

1. My husband slamming the ball out of my son's hand with a whallop and yelling "DENIED" as my son falls down holding his hand and crying.

2. My son reaching for the ball and my husband, knocks him down and steps on his fingers while yelling "Too Slow!"

3. The fact that it's all just a psychological thing my husband's doing unconsciously because my son is better at hockey than he was and now my husband is green with envy.

Now, obviously none of these things happened but, hey, we're easily amused.