So Noah fell off his scooter yesterday. Skinned both of his knees up.
And you know, THE END.
Unless you are his father. Remember the fruit sticker? This was way worse than the fruit sticker. Because not only was a fall off a scooter -- a three-inches-off-the-ground scooter -- the worst thing that could ever befall one's precious snowflake offspring, it was totally MY FAULT, YOU NEGLIGENT MONSTER.
My fault, his version = holding precious snowflake #2 at top of a deceptively slopey hill, allowing precious snowflake #1 to fly past me on scooter, shouting at him to "turn into the grass" when he picked up a little too much speed instead of...I DON'T KNOW. Dropping the baby on the curb to run after Noah, perhaps hurling my body onto the pavement underneath him at the exact second of impact. Stopping the scooter with my mind powers, thus revealing ourselves to be a family of telekinetic mutants to the entire neighborhood. Writing letters to the county four years ago to have the sidewalks replaced with packing peanuts. Because I really should have seen this coming.
My fault, my version = I think he was mostly mad because I was entirely too calm about it. I made him look totes uncool, you guys. There was blood and and I was all, yep, whatever, that's why we wear helmets, dude, and Jason was all, OMFG SMELLING SALTS.
We brought Noah inside and offered various bribes in exchange for calming down -- ice cream sandwich? candy? chocolate milk? -- and after awhile he mournfully accepted some chocolate-covered raisins. Jason poured himself a scotch while I hissed at him that oh, you know, IN THE FUTURE, I would prefer if he NOT shout "What the fuck were you thinking?" at top volume in front of the CHILDREN, in front of the NEIGHBORS, and on second thought, could he just go ahead and not spazz out over skinned knees, like we have BOYS, TWO OF THEM, which equals about 4,500,075 skinned knees, lifetime. Also: YOU PANSY.
(Also. ALSO! Who is the parent who vetoed the elbow and knee pad set as being "dorky"? And was upset that the bike store didn't have the skater helmet in Noah's size because it was more "badass" than the bike helmet?)
(Hint: The same parent who was now sobbing helplessly into a sofa cushion because BLOOD! BLOOD! HE COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!)
Noah finished his candy and turned his tear-stained face towards me. I launched into a cheerful pep talk about falling down and getting hurt and the importance of Getting Back On and Trying Again. He nodded solemnly and announced that he also needed that ice cream sandwich, after all.
Later, Jason asked if I planned to "write about this" and I asked if he meant "this" as in, the time Noah fell off his scooter or the time you revealed himself to be a total wuss, worthy of much Internet scorn and derision because HAAAAAAAAAA YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN YOUR FACE?
The second one, he said. I kind of deserve it.
DONE, I said. Also, you're adorable and I love you.
I should probably mention that prior to the Great Scooter Crash of Aught-Nine, we took Noah shopping for his very own big boy birthday bike. (SPOILER: Noah is getting a bike for his birthday. Nobody say anything to him. At least not in the...say, two hours right before we give it to him.) His favorite one was pink and had butterflies on the seat. I hope he won't be too disappointed when he gets the blue version, as I enjoy crushing whimsical individuality in favor of gender stereotyping. I can't raise a boy who screams like a girl at the sight of a bloody knee, you know?