The ride home from school today was a doozie. Boy #3 had lost his first tooth, and he had a treasure box, a sticker on his shirt AND a hole in his mouth to prove it. The minivan was full of excitement and happiness for a total of three minutes — until we pulled into our driveway, I put the van in park and Boy #2 slammed the van door on his finger.
At first I wasn’t sure what had happened. I just heard that ear-piercing scream, the one that makes a mom drop her groceries in the driveway and run to see what was wrong. (You know what I’m talking about.)
Fortunately, it wasn’t bleeding too much and is likely just really bruised. Unfortunately, it’s the third finger on his writing hand. And regardless, it still hurt a lot.
After we bandaged his finger and he stopped crying (and I picked the groceries up off the cement), I was able to step back and wonder how he shut his finger in the door. The boy is almost 9 years old and has shut that door literally thousands of time. How ever did he not move his finger out of the way this time?
And then my mind drifted back to earlier that day when I was in a store, bent down to get a closer look at a candle and speared myself in the forehead with a metal bracket sticking out from the display.
Oh, and then later in my kitchen when I whacked my forehead (again) on an open cupboard door. (And no, my cupboard doors are not made of plexiglass, but thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt.)
I tell Husband that he knew what he was getting into when he married me. He’s an athlete. I, on the other hand, am not. (And that’s putting it mildly.) He was warned that if we procreated, there was a chance our children would inherit the awkwardness of their mother instead of the athleticism of their father. I’m not sure he really believed it, however. I think he secretly believed his swift and nimble genes would overpower my off-balanced and sluggish genes.
We’ll consider this a lesson in genetics.
I think I made Boy #2 feel a little better when I told him the story of how I once shut my head in the car door. In college. Outside the library. With my boyfriend (now husband) in the car.
“Did it bleed?” he asked, wiping away tears.
“Nope, just severely bruised my ears,” I said, gently tousling his hair.
Clumsiness does have its merits — teaching humility and empathy. (It does not, however, help you run and catch a ball at the same time.)