Since I only started to blog only about a year ago, you have to know there are about a hundred million stories that are floating through my head that I have not yet written down. Before I am old and senile (which is happening fairly quickly), I need a place to write them down, so you must endure the memories along with me. Trust me, its better this way. If I wait too long, I will start inserting random people into my family stories who don’t belong there, getting dates and places mixed up, it won’t be pretty. So I start here.
Tonight I was reminded of my very first concussion. Was I swinging on the uneven bars gracefully until my foot caught the bar and I tumbled to the floor onto my head? No. Was I struck in the head by a foreign object while saving a starving child from a gutter in Calcutta? Nope. Actually, one of my daughters, who will remain nameless, but happens to have red hair and a strong personality threw a brick at my head.
Yep. She was 2 years old. I was bending down over a pile of sticks and leaves, trying to set them on fire, when she picked up a piece of cinder block and said, “Here you go Mama, I help” and lobbed it right at my temple. I literally saw stars for 10 seconds, just like in the Tom and Jerry cartoons. When my vision cleared, all I remember from the rest of that day was my daughter running as fast as she could away from me, because she knew she must be in trouble.
I have almost no memory of the two weeks or so after it happened. Rob was going out of town on a business trip and he knew he could not trust me alone with his children, so he used up his frequent flyer miles and took me with him. I have this vague memory of wandering down to this Walmart by our motel and coming home with this ugly, scratchy blue sweatshirt. I remember putting ice on my head and sort of snapping out of it in Williamsburg, Virginia.
This is what it is like to be the Mother of my children. Anyone want to trade places? Just kidding. I wouldn’t trade them in for the world.