Milestone

There are the biggies: first smile, first words, first steps. That first year, every week we could run down a list of New Cool Things our baby was capable of. That second year is still full of first excitement, and in the third year parents witness an emerging imagination. By the fourth year, things slow down but you still shoot glances at your spouse that say, "Dang, how did we end up with such a Brilliant kid?" Good golly, by the fifth and sixth years everything is old hat and you and your kid are downright jaded. In the seventh year, we've got the first lost tooth to look for. We've been waiting a while for that one. In fact, Wrigley is starting to get a little worried that "everyone" except her has lost a tooth. This is not about Wrigley's first lost tooth. We're still waiting on that one.

This post is about one of many unspeakable firsts. The ones you hope won't happen but must anyhow. Today's first was a big fat bicycle accident. Lucky me, I got to see the whole thing happen.

Pretty simple - big hill, wet asphalt path. She always likes to go down the hills fast, but I can see her riding her brakes some. She likes to be in control. This time she was going really fast. Left behind at the top of the hill, I whispered some choice words under my breath about how fast she was going.

It is hard to let your kid take risks. It is hard to see her climb every tree she comes across when parents around you are whispering stories back and forth about the kid who fell - 10 feet, 20 feet, 50 feet - from a tree last summer in our park. He's still not as good as new. But take risks she must, and they must be real risks, not ones I have safely padded and insured and sanitized. So I stand back, wince, hold my breath and whisper under my breath all behind her back. She cannot know I think she might get hurt.

At the bottom of the hill she slows some. The brakes work, but she isn't stopping as quickly as usual. She gets impatient and puts her feet down. The front wheel wobbles. She corrects, then tumbles over and splat, on the sidewalk.

Still awfully close to the top of the hill I start quickly down until the voice in my head tells me to run. It also lets me know that the good sticks of kindling I've been collecting (we go camping again in two and a half weeks) are of no use, and I toss them to the side. Poor Wrig, I don't gt there first. First on the scene is a transient waiting for the bus who smells like two week old alcohol. He is very kind, helping her untangle and trying to comfort her, but she is not interested. When I arrive she falls again, this time into my lap.

It takes several minutes to assess the damage, since she is sobbing and we have to go through several body parts with newly ground in dirt and grit on bare skin and sweatshirt. After several minutes I realize nothing is broken or bleeding too badly. Her hand is chewed up a bit, she has a sprinkling of road rash in her face and her eyebrow has swelled up to the size of a chocolate malt ball in addition to run-of-the-mill knee and shin scrapes.

Back at home she won't let me take any pictures. We use copious amounts of band aids to cover each speck of evidence. We settle on the couch with hot chocolate and a book.

The good news is we still have first trip to the emergency room to look forward to.