Sunday, June 24, 2012

Mama hates that she's always right

I'm walking home from the park, not trying hard to mask my irritation. There's a big blood smear on the front of my shirt like a bull's eye on my bust. I'm lugging a blue tricycle in one hand, while I attempt to steer the stroller with my other hand.  Amelia is in the stroller, twisting around trying to see behind her. That's because Cole has claimed he is too injured to walk and has climbed into the basket underneath the stroller.

The stain is transfer from Cole's elbow when I scooped him up to make sure he hadn't broken any bones. He didn't cry - in my mind that's the first indication of no broken bones. He fell off his trike making a sharp turn on the yellow-painted race track on the local school's tarmac. He fell not only because he took the turn too tight, but also because he ploughed head-first into the stroller I was pushing (with Amelia in it). This was moments after he asked if he could crash into me and I said, "No! Someone could get hurt!"

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