I had the divine pleasure of working from home yesterday, and with the 90 minutes of round-trip Metro-North time out of the equation, I was done–and, of course, home–at 5:30.
I took advantage of the bonus time by taking Little G to the playground over at Hummerville Elementary. He climbed the three steps up to the ramp he loves to run on, a 30-foot corridor on a slight incline that leads to a mad tangle of slides, tunnels and bars.
I was watching out of the corner of my eye when Little G suddenly dropped like a rock, parallel to the ground just before he slammed into the ramp. He jumped to his feet as I ran to him; he wore the WTF? mask just before his little face scrunched into prepare-to-wail mode.
As it turned out, some jackass–OK, more likely, some kid simply being a kid–had laid a branch about the size of a pool cue across the ramp’s handrails, about 2 1/2 feet from the ground. Caught up in the rapture that is those first couple steps on a playground, Little G hit the stick with his forehead at full speed, and even broke the thing in two.
I held Little G as he wailed, a small cut rising on his temple. Of course, he wanted Mommy, so we got in the stroller and headed for home.
I offered a little “special coal”– which seems to work for Thomas the Train’s boiler ache in one of Little G’s books, and often for Little G himself after he’s taken a tumble. The invisible offering helped a little.
There will be countless times when I’m at a loss to explain life’s small injustices to Little G (and, down the road, Big G) after he’s been stung by one.
This was but the first.