After dropping Lael off at school, Seth – helmet and backpack on – is ready. He jumps on his scooter, as he does most days, and rolls down the driveway.
After chatting for a few moments, Seth zooms ahead, then waits at the street corner for me to catch up. I remind Seth to look all ways before crossing.
Seth again rolls ahead while my mind wanders to the issues of the day: wife home sick, early release day, technical problems at work, messages I need to send.
I hear metal slap against asphalt. I know even before I hear Seth wail that he’s crashed. I look up to find him crumpled on the street, his head and back pressing against the high, concrete curb.
Although I am about 200 yards away, three worries hit me at once: 1. that a car might hit him 2. that he broke an arm and 3. that he might have hit his head on the curb.
When I get to Seth, I can hear him moaning, but at least his helmet looks intact. For a split second, I debate whether I should pick him up, then, despite protestations, lift his lanky body into a sitting position. He’s holding one arm, but it doesn’t look broken.
At about that time, two or three drivers stop to see if Seth is okay. “I don’t know yet,” I call out.
“Does he need a Band-Aid?” one mother calls out.
“Yes.”
The driver says something about looking for them, but I can’t make out the garbled words from across the street.
Another woman, with young girl in tow, is suddenly crouching next to us. “Does your boy need Band-Aids?”
I inspect Seth further, finding several scratches under his pants and shirt sleeves. “Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll be just a minute,” and she walks into a nearby house.
I tell the driver, who drives off to school.
Impatient, Seth licks the wound – black asphalt stains obscuring the red scrapes – on the back of his hand.
“Don’t do that, you’ll infect it.”
I pull a bottle of water out of the backpack and wash off one of the four scrapes. Both wrists, an elbow and a knee. Warm weather clothes protected Seth’s skin from more severe injuries.
“Where is the lady bringing Band-Aids?” Seth complains.
She arrives moments later. As I use baby wipes to clean the injuries and then apply antibiotics, I ask what happened.
“I closed my eyes and crashed,” Seth says.
“Why would you do that?”
“To stay warm.”
“Seth, you can’t close your eyes when you’re riding a scooter.”
“It was only for a second.”
“A second too long. Please, never close your eyes when riding a scooter or bike.”
Seth shakes his head in acknowledgement.
I talk to the woman helping us out. Turns out her oldest daughter is at the same preschool as Lael.
I marvel at how nice the people in our neighborhood are. I’ve not always been this fortunate.
I fold up Seth’s scooter while thanking the young mom. Seth complains Arizona is too cold as we walk the remaining distance to school. I deliver Seth, who seems okay now, to class just in time.
On my way home, I talk to a husband and wife with two boys, telling them what happened. “Maybe his eyes were cold,” the mom says.
It’s then I remember: Seth complained about cold eyes last year. Talk about sensitive; the temperature is a relatively warm, 55 degrees.
Is it my imagination, or is parenting like living in an inexplicable, illogical adventure novel?
After dropping Lael off at school, Seth – helmet and backpack on – is ready. He jumps on his scooter, as he does most days, and rolls down the driveway.
After chatting for a few moments, Seth zooms ahead, then waits at the street corner for me to catch up. I remind Seth to look all ways before crossing.
Seth again rolls ahead while my mind wanders to the issues of the day: wife home sick, early release day, technical problems at work, messages I need to send.
I hear metal slap against asphalt. I know even before I hear Seth wail that he’s crashed. I look up to find him crumpled on the street, his head and back pressing against the high, concrete curb.
Although I am about 200 yards away, three worries hit me at once: 1. that a car might hit him 2. that he broke an arm and 3. that he might have hit his head on the curb.
When I get to Seth, I can hear him moaning, but at least his helmet looks intact. For a split second, I debate whether I should pick him up, then, despite protestations, lift his lanky body into a sitting position. He’s holding one arm, but it doesn’t look broken.
At about that time, two or three drivers stop to see if Seth is okay. “I don’t know yet,” I call out.
“Does he need a Band-Aid?” one mother calls out.
“Yes.”
The driver says something about looking for them, but I can’t make out the garbled words from across the street.
Another woman, with young girl in tow, is suddenly crouching next to us. “Does your boy need Band-Aids?”
I inspect Seth further, finding several scratches under his pants and shirt sleeves. “Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll be just a minute,” and she walks into a nearby house.
I tell the driver, who drives off to school.
Impatient, Seth licks the wound – black asphalt stains obscuring the red scrapes – on the back of his hand.
“Don’t do that, you’ll infect it.”
I pull a bottle of water out of the backpack and wash off one of the four scrapes. Both wrists, an elbow and a knee. Warm weather clothes protected Seth’s skin from more severe injuries.
“Where is the lady bringing Band-Aids?” Seth complains.
She arrives moments later. As I use baby wipes to clean the injuries and then apply antibiotics, I ask what happened.
“I closed my eyes and crashed,” Seth says.
“Why would you do that?”
“To stay warm.”
“Seth, you can’t close your eyes when you’re riding a scooter.”
“It was only for a second.”
“A second too long. Please, never close your eyes when riding a scooter or bike.”
Seth shakes his head in acknowledgement.
I talk to the woman helping us out. Turns out her oldest daughter is at the same preschool as Lael.
I marvel at how nice the people in our neighborhood are. I’ve not always been this fortunate.
I fold up Seth’s scooter while thanking the young mom. Seth complains Arizona is too cold as we walk the remaining distance to school. I deliver Seth, who seems okay now, to class just in time.
On my way home, I talk to a husband and wife with two boys, telling them what happened. “Maybe his eyes were cold,” the mom says.
It’s then I remember: Seth complained about cold eyes last year. Talk about sensitive; the temperature is a relatively warm, 55 degrees.
Is it my imagination, or is parenting like living in an inexplicable, illogical adventure novel?