In a bizarre twist of post-party emergency potty time, my husband was walking with Quinlan on his shoulders and overestimated the height of the rapidly spinning ceiling fan and walked her right into it.
Leave it to the in-laws to completely scare the shit out of me and my daughter, screaming for me from the condo like my daughter had just cut off her limb with a paring knife.
As it turns out, Q is fairly unscathed, save a few minor but very bloody surface wounds. But being the hilarious girl that she is related the whole incident to growing up, crying for a solid hour about how she didn't want to be tall or be four because then you hit your heads on ceiling fans.
Ah, sweet sweet childhood trauma.
So, while I attempt to desensitize her from a potential ceiling fan phobia and reassure my husband that it does indeed suck to be responsible for your child's injuries (hello, two broken bones on my watch, people), I give you a picture in happier times.
Forget the Barbie Car people. You should have bought me a helmet!