My kids are upstairs, in the midst of a play date right now. A good mother would probably have 1) scheduled this type of thing 2) served an organically made snack or at least whittled carrot slices into shapes of stars and hearts and probably also 3) roller skated calmly and gracefully at her daughter's birthday party last weekend.
Instead, I 1) didn't, and simply rudely accosted one of Katie's classmate's mother in the school parking lot, 2) noticed that Katie's friend was divvying up some fruit snacks she probably rummaged from her lunch box, so, out of guilt, I threw some cheese sticks in the middle of the table and 3) last week, totally barreled into the rink, hopped up on cupcakes and nostalgic Michael Jackson songs, wobbling on ankles that hadn't seen a quad skate since the age of 10, and squashed Katie like a pancake within minutes.
Don't worry, people. She's totally fine. I mean, it's not like you make it to the age of seven with a mother like me and not toughen up a bit, you know? Although, there was some bruising involved. I mean, Katie should probably work a little harder on actually growing that exoskeleton I keep suggesting. Kids, man, they never listen to their elders.