If you ever need a reason to go from 0 to 60 in a split second, I highly recommend releasing your child outdoors and letting her zoom off on her scooter. Then, you can lope back inside, sink into the couch, and almost sigh, but you’re halted by the worst sobbing and crying you’ve ever heard coming from your front yard.
She bit it in the street. Gravel found its way deep into both her palms, her elbow got a monster scrape, and the tears. Ugh. Sucked. She’s since been cleaned up and bandaged, so I think we’re gonna make it.
I can remember my summertime war story. It was the summer of 1982. I had an electric blue bicycle with the big handlebars and a glorious banana seat (that sparkled, no less). I had been racing a girlfriend down our street, when out of nowhere, her dogs ran out in front of me. I swerved and may or may not have run into a dog. I’ve always told the story indicating that I did hit a dog, but now that I think about it, I honestly can’t remember.
Holy crap. They’re names were Champ and Raven. I remember the names of my neighbor’s dogs from nearly 40 years ago. Sure. That makes sense. Anyway, I digress.
So, I fell off my bike, and somehow slid across the road, primarily on my face. I vaguely remember my dad running out to the street and scooping me up in his arms, carrying me back inside. There was a moment during my screaming and crying that I glanced down at my knee and saw it had been brutalized by the pavement, too, causing me to cry that much harder.
Why is it that looking at our own fresh wounds turns our tears up to eleven? It happened with my daughter today, too.
I have a scar on my left knee from that day, and a faint mark on my face, near my upper lip.
In case you wondered what song reminds me of that summer, I’ve included it below for your listening and viewing entertainment.