As I looked up at the ominous, dark grey sky, the only thought in my mind was “where had it all gone wrong?” I could hear faint sounds of life: the wind rustling in the trees, the damp smell of the earth, the sharp stab of a rock in my back. How had I gotten here? I’d spent years of my life practicing, repeating the motions until my hands were blistered and bloody; yet here I was, on the cold, unforgiving earth. The single thought I had was: I had been defeated by children’s monkey bars.
It should have been easy. At the playground with my two kids, Molly and Andy, I decided to show them how to use the monkey bars. I’d been a pro at them when I was a child, spending recess and lunch hour swinging like a monkey. Blisters and Band-Aids on my hands, I flung myself up and over, backwards, and off. In the last thirty years, however, my lower half had gotten heavier, and my arm muscles had remained feeble. I grabbed the first bar and as I prepared to swing to the next, my right arm, having lifted nothing heavier than a dirty diaper in the last five years, simply collapsed under my own weight. I fell like a sack of bricks, landing with a solid ka-WHUMPF on the ground. As I pondered my mortality, Andy rushed over and asked “okay, mummy?” while Molly questioned “is that how you monkey bar?”
Leaving my dignity on the ground, I slowly stood up and assessed myself for injuries. This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve hurt myself doing something dumb. There was the time I closed a door on my foot and cut my heel open, or the time I sliced my finger reaching under the lawnmower (in my defence, the lawn mower was off). Let’s not forget the time I slept with my arm over my head, and my shoulder hurt for a week. These minor injuries are taking longer and longer to heal. My hands, in particular, are getting the worst of it; covered in scars, they’re as red as an 18th century washer woman’s.
And yet, as the years march on, my hands remind me of my mother’s. I remember the feel of our fingers interlacing, how comforted and safe I felt. And those crow’s feet around my eyes when I glance in the mirror – is that her? I don’t mind becoming more like my mom. She’s kinder and more patient than anyone I know, and she’s had some stupid injuries, too. Like the time she fell out of our treehouse and broke her arm, or the time she grated her knuckles on the cheese grater. Maybe foolish accidents are genetic!
As I dusted the remnants of my pride off my dirty pants, all I could do was shake my head and sigh. I’m definitely not a kid anymore; in fact, I’m close to not being a “spring chicken” either! One wrong move, and I could be laid up for weeks with a broken ankle or a busted wrist. It wouldn’t hurt me to be a little more careful. “Hey kids,” I called, “why don’t I show you the slide, instead?” There’s no chance I could get hurt on a slide, right? Leave it to me to find out!
