Some of you have heard this story, but I don’t care. It’s funny, and I want it chronicled on the interwebs so my boy’s potential love interests can someday trip across it and know that he’s always been a little…adventurous (read: willing to completely disregard personal safety in the interest of having fun).

One day a couple of years ago, Bill and I are standing next to our closet in the hallway that contained our washer and dryer laundry area, and Bill sends Matt up to our room to get an empty laundry basket. At the time we lived in a three-story townhouse. The stairs were a straight shot from top to bottom. (I know you see where this is going now.)

Bill and I are busily folding laundry and chatting, and we hear “thunk-thunk-thunk (and on)…OWWW!” We turn around, and there’s our boy, nonchalantly handing us the laundry basket we’d asked for — with a swollen, red nose and eyes full of tears.

“What happened? Are you hurt?! Come here, and let me see,” I said to my oldest offspring. Still maintaining his “whatEV” attitude, he ambles over. (Okay, given that he was three steps from me, “amble” might be overstating things.)

I see that he has knocked the snot out of himself (literally), and I ask again what happened. He says, “Weeeeellllllllll…I accidentally rode the laundry basket down the stairs and ran into the door.”

Me: Wait. How did you “accidentally” ride it down the stairs?
Matt: Weeeelllllll…see, I was standing there, at the top of the stairs, and I had the laundry basket, and so I looked at it, and then I looked at the stairs. I thought it might be fun to ride it down. The accident part happened when I hit the door.

At this point, I hug my boy but mostly so he can’t see that his evil, evil mother is about to burst into unrestrained, hysterical laughter.

I then ask him if it was at least fun before he hit the door. He says that it was, indeed, a pretty good time right up ’til then. As I’ve mentioned, I’m a bad mom about this stuff — I could no longer contain my laughter. When he realizes he’s not in any trouble, he starts crying. How he held out as long as he did, I will never know ’cause I bet that hurt something *fierce.

So, I get him all doctored up and loved on and consoled and send him on his merry, if somewhat bruised, way. And that’s when I see my husband eyeing the rolling sorter and the steps.

:sigh: Boys.