The Stitch

That's the kind of message I'm sure all moms dread hearing on their answering machines. Especially when the rest of the message involves words like "skydiving accident," "hard landing," hurt my back."

And of course, he downplayed the urgency just a hair.

Saturday afternoon, the Briguy made his second skydive of the year (usually he's got hundreds in by this time of year, but he's got a naggy wife and a kiddo to entertain, so we rarely unchain him from the kitchen table). A couple of his parachute lines snapped. He tested them to make sure he could "flare" (which makes him slow down as he lands). Everything seems ok, so he didn't cut away, and attempted a landing.

Well, long story short: flare didn't flare, the ground came at him a little too quickly and the end result is a whole stream of curse words captured on video via helmet cam, and one very sore hubby with a compression fracture of a vertebrae.

We spent Saturday afternoon/evening at the hospital entertaining the nurses with Brian's muddy Teva-toes and Elizabeth's ability to fart and laugh hysterically at the most unimaginable moments. The two of them scored lots of stickers - E-beth's had smiley faces and ads for "Liquid Stitches," and Brian's were for EKG monitors - attached only at the hairiest places on his body.

I want to nag. I want to lecture. I want to lay down the law and ban people who live in the Piper homestead from falling from the sky, but I won't. I'm going to do the smart thing (as advised by a very wise woman I know) and leave the nagging to everyone else who knows him. ;-)