After my Ugly Duckling post I have decided to once again take a break from picking on my Dad. This time I’m going to pick on my Mom.
I absolutely adore my Mother. She is smart, funny, and everything that I admire. (It also helps that she was the one who let me quit soccer and sea cadets – take that, Dad). As I have gotten older I am better able to appreciate a friendship with my Mom. Whether it’s our hours spent watching McLeod’s Daughters (why would Alex marry that harpy? And who does Sally think she is, just showing up with that baby!) or our drives down to the beach to watch the herons and judge other beachgoers, my Mom and I have a very special relationship.
It is because of our special relationship that I do not hold any grudge regarding the story I am about to tell you.
Living on the West Coast we often went to the beach when I was growing up. My brother and sister would run in and out of the ocean ignoring the frigid temperatures of the pacific ocean in the way that only children and surfers can, splashing and playing and genuinely having a wonderful time. In the early days, when I was really young, I was unable to join my siblings as the waves can be quite strong and my family did not want me to drown or be sucked away into the Pacific Ocean where I would inevitably join a new mermaid family. To prevent me from following my playmates into the water my parents had me on a leash. It fit around my wrist and was rainbow and awesome and I loved it despite its freedom restricting ways.
Man, I really loved that leash.
One afternoon when my family was leaving the beach we were standing around my parent’s car (a white Pontiac with red seats). Mom and Dad were talking by the open trunk and David and Julia were talking off to the side, leaving me to amuse myself. The leash had been removed and I remember being really bored.
I wandered over to my parents, still talking intently, and peered into the trunk.
And that’s where I spied it. My leash. The bright rainbow colours called to me and a smile spread across my face. I stood up on my tippy toes, leaned forward and reached in, my fingers almost touching the colourful edges. I was so close.
And then my smile fell, my hand clenched on air, and my feet lowered to the ground tears streaming down my face all the while.
The trunk had started to close on my head, guided by my Mom’s hand (she had not noticed me leaning into the trunk). After her initial attempt at closing the trunk (which obviously didn’t work as my head was in it) she pushed down on it a second time hoping this one would catch, only to be stopped by my scream (and the screams of my brother and sister who had chosen that moment to start paying attention to me again).
My Mom was devastated and probably cried more than I did, scooping me up into her arms and kissing my tender and abused forehead.
I honestly don’t remember if it hurt a lot (I was probably only about three or four) but I imagine it startled me more than anything. Still, this is a very happy memory for me as I was rewarded with a double scoop ice cream treat paid for by my Mom’s guilt.
It really is the little things in life.
As an aside, feel free to blame any spelling errors or grammar mistakes on this tragic head injury I received as a child as opposed to thinking I am just lazy and love commas. Thank you. SMRP.