|My little soldier.|
My kids belong on a stage.
Case in point:
It was a hot, sunny, summer afternoon.
We sometimes get those in Edmonton.
Seven-year-old Erik was riding his bike on the sidewalk.
Next to a street that closely resembled the frenetic scramble of frantic ants when someone has stirred up their nest.
Dozens of neighbourhood kids of every size and variety screamed/shouted/laughed.
Scenarios were being enacted.
Dares carried out.
Counter-dares being proposed.
And through it all, Erik rode his bike serenely up and down.
Up and down.
Up and . . . oops.
Right at the foot of our neighbour’s lawn, in an effort to avoid a collision, he turned.
And toppled off his bike.
I had just come to the door, carrying a bowl of freshly-washed raspberries to offer as a mid-afternoon snack. I watched him go down.
Scraping one knee.
He rolled onto his back and, for several seconds, lay there. Then he looked up at me. “Mom!” he shouted. “I fell!”
“I saw you!” I called back. “Come on! Let’s get you fixed up!”
Slowly, he rolled over onto his stomach. Then, with kids running back and forth and even leaping over him, started crawling--crawling--up the lawn toward me.
Dragging his wounded leg.
He looked like a soldier crossing a battlefield.
I shook my head and watched him.
Finally, he reached the steps and flung himself onto his back.
“Mom! I hurt my knee! I think I have gangrene!”
I handed him the raspberries and went to get the band-aids.
Two minutes later, he was back on his bike.
Dangerously wounded, obviously-going-to-fall-right-off knee pumping madly as he rode.
Yep. Kids belong on a stage.