Hey, this is Randy . . .
Natalie really hates giving the kids a bath. And when she's pregnant she REALLY hates giving the kids a bath. What better way to get out of it than to fake an ankle injury? Why not legitimize it by going to the doctor, getting x-rays, the whole 9 yards?
Okay, I can't prove any of that, but it doesn't stop me from suspecting. . .
Here's what really happened:
Mark was throwing me a few pitches. Like a 5 year-old, he couldn't really toss up a meatball. He was throwing them low, high, outside, and at my head-- anywhere but across the plate. Natalie told him she'd show him how. She tossed a perfect pitch. Though I'd been showing off for Mark, I wasn't about to rip a line drive off my pregnant wife, so I gently popped one up right to her. Well, it was ALMOST right to her; actually it went a little over her head. She took two steps back and twisted off balance, landing in a heap. Worst of all she started to cry. Oh, and she did catch the ball, but dropped it as she hit the ground. I rushed over to see if she was in labor or had landed on her tummy, she finally got out that it was just her ankle.
Though Natalie is a great whiffle ball player, she is not much of a crutch user. She half hopped, half leant on me as we got her in the house. Neither of us really thought it was broken, but we thought it was worth the co-pay to find out. The doctor, who happened to know me from Ephraim, took a few x-rays and confirmed what we thought-- no break. He gave her a brace, and she's been sailing along ever since.
She's quite a trooper.