So last weekend we took the little angel to one of those places with two stories of tunnels. I've always believed if you've got an only child, then you're going to have to play with him or her. So I agreed to enter the tunnels with her, again, as I always do.
Even though it sort of hurts.
I watched my daughter scoot through the tunnels by stretching her arms out, then pulling her knees along together as one unit. She moved really fast this way, much faster than my all-fours cat thing. So I tried to emulate her.
And I wondered if her knees were made of some other substance than bones and ligaments and oh-so-delicate skin. Because mine felt like they were being slammed into a hamster tunnel repeatedly. Also, my wrists hurt.
But I soldiered on. O captain, my captain, and all of that.
We got to the little rope area up at the top, where at our last visit we had played Mommy Spider and Baby Spider. I taught her to grab the bar and hook her feet in the ropes and swing upside down. I was modeling proper form on our third visit to the Spider House when I lost my grip and dropped about six inches onto the mat. I felt a searing pain through my left hip.
I lay there on the mat thinking good God, I've broken my ass. Here, at the top of the tunnel. How the hell are sixty-five preschoolers going to get me down?
I started picturing the surly teen running the kiddie rides clamboring up after me. Perhaps they would have to lift me down with a crane. Perhaps my ass would have to go in a cast, just in time for the holiday season.
And that's when I discovered, yet again, that pride and vanity are stronger than pain. Forcing myself up, I smiled weakly. "And that," I instructed my daughter, "is NOT how you do the dismount."
Read a review of blog-to-book Wife in the North at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews!
Happy Thanksgiving! Back on Monday.