For a lawyer, I have an amazingly dangerous house. In the back yard, there's a tall, wooden play set and a trampoline. A hammock hangs menacingly over a flagstone path. In the basement, there's a room that looks like the Gimp's summer home. We call it the jumping room. There are mattresses on the floor with plenty of gaps to the concrete floors and walls. A swing and olympic-style rings hang from the ceiling. We're also in the process of building an attic kid's nook with trap door access about 9 feet off the ground.
Tonight, we hosted a meeting for our Indian Princess tribe, an organization for girls age 5 to 10ish and their dads. So, the house the was filled with 15-20 little girls... running around, inhaling sugar, poking the campfire, riding the hammock like a surfboard and jumping en masse on the trampoline. And in all this chaos, nobody got hurt. That is, until my son clocked his sister in the head with a toy truck. Knock on noggin, sibling violence and general clumsiness have been the only major sources of injury in the Fortis household.
Even so, lawyer-me keeps screaming advice in my head: "This place is a menace. Get rid of that jumping room. One at time in the trampoline. Quote that $10 million umbrella policy." But kid-me just looks around and says: "cooool." So far, kid-me is smoking lawyer-me like a cuban cigar.
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