Momnesia

A Beautiful Day...

AUGUSTA, GA. - So this morning I demonstrated why I have a category of blog entry entitled "Stupid Wife Tricks." Because all day I was just a walking accident waiting to happen, as my mother would say. Except it did happen. Repeatedly.

First, I got up this morning, ran to the bank to deposit a check, and left my ATM card in the machine. Dang.

Then I ran home to make some breakfast, forgot about the bread in the oven, and didn't remember until the smoke alarm started going off. I ran into the kitchen, slipped on a wet spot on the floor, and skidded across the linoleum to a stop. It's a good thing I did because there was so much smoke in the room that if I'd walked in, I'd probably have passed out from lack of oxygen.

After that, I got a call from a woman who looked up online after finding my bank card in the ATM. Samantha Smith, I love you. She wouldn't take any money for the service she did by googling me and meeting me at the Wachovia with my card. "No, I just know how hard it is to get a new one. Those 10 days feel like forever," she said.

But meeting her made me late to meet a friend, who was nice enough to drive everyone to Kackleberry Farm. I ran out of the bathroom and tossed on my clothes when she came in, and exited in a hurry. "Did your mommy just get out of the shower?" she teased Emerson. Hey, you're lucky I didn't leave body parts behind.

Once there, we found out that they don't take check cards. Thank god we all had enough cash - but can I recommend that, since Queensboro National Bank & Trust is a sponsor - that they perhaps consider placing an ATM on the premises?

The first activity was a giant inflatable yellow pillow. It's like one of those kiddie jumping castles, but without walls - and it's enormous. Like the big kids we sometimes are, T.C. and I jumped up on the surface with the little kids (while the teens looked on in bemused embarassment for a while before deciding, as a group, that a short trial might have an acceptable level of coolness). And then I slipped on the side and did a sideways face-plant while trying to - oh, hell; I don't know what I was trying to do. But I got back up laughing, and kept on jumping until Emmie was ready to move on to my next attempt to do bodily harm...

... something like this:


... or this:


But I got through the rest of the day almost without incident through the corn maze, the hay jump, the lassoing, the pig races, the petting zoo, the corn cob launcher, the sand pile, the swing set and even the random yellow jackets buzzing around our hot dogs.



We all did well, even when Emmie (who's just three years old) decided that she could not live without trying the zip line. I should have heeded the cosmic warning when - while running along with her to make sure she didn't fall off the zip line and hurt herself - I stepped in a hole and almost went flying off into yet another face plant. But that near escape only emboldened me. After Emmie rode the zip line about a dozen times, it was nearing time to go, but I wanted to ride their crazy-tall tunnel slide with Emmie before we left.

The force by which she had come careening out of the slide in the past didn't concern me. I'm much heavier, I reasoned, and thus the friction would be greater and slow us down. Plus, I'd plant my shoes against the sides if that theory was wrong.

It was all wrong. From the moment I gently pushed off the top I saw that this short ride would not end well. My shoes slid harmlessly, comically, against the slick interior. My 10% lycra pants did nothing to combat our slide of doom.

So this is how we would end, I thought. Nearly four years of worrying about the many things that could kill my child and at the end, it would be my rapidly descending ass.

We shot out of the slide with my legs at an odd angle from straining to slow our roll. I planted my feet as best I could and rolled with Emmie in my arms. No hard-boiled detective could have done any better to protect his charge. She hopped up, laughing, and ran off to climb the slide again. But the moment of impact shot through my leg like an explosion. I envisioned, along with the pain, that my leg was snapping mid-tibia. Human legs just don't bend like that. I came to a stop in the sand and stayed there.

"Are you alright?" a woman's voice called after a moment. Eyes closed against the sun and brain reeling with the weight of my own retardation, I raised my thumb in response. She chuckled. "We've got a mother down! Hurt mommy!"

Thanks, lady. I felt sand seeping through the waistband of my pants and into my underwear. That was as good a reason as any to sit up. I looked around. No one was particularly interested in my recreation of Joe Theismann's famously videotaped broken leg.

See it here... and cringe with me:


So I stood up... not so bad. Actually, it didn't hurt enough for me to worry about. So I took a step... and almost fell down again. It DID hurt. But it wasn't broken. I limped over to where T.C. stood.

"You okay?" she asked, amused.
I burst into laughter: "No, man! My leg freaking hurts!"
She nodded: "I saw you shoot out of the tube like a rocket. What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking, 'Oh, shit!'"