This morning while I was out on my run, I fell. I hit a patch of ice (there is still plenty of it on the ground in Milwaukee), and bit it…hard. I got up quickly and kept going (don’t want to let that heart rate drop!), but after about two minutes, curiosity got the best of me, so I stopped to inspect my wound. As I suspected, I had skinned my knee (and some of my shin, I later discovered), but nothing more.
About 1.5 miles stood between me and my house. I kept going, feeling sore but not too bad.When I walked in the door, I pointed out my injury to beloved wife, and she gasped in horror. In the time it had taken me to get home, my little flesh wound had bled enough to make it appear as if I was seriously injured…streams of red had almost reached my sock. I felt (and looked) hardcore. Of course, I was reminded of how minor the scrape actually was when I cleaned it up and was able to cover it with a relatively small bandage.
The last time I sustained such an injury was in fifth grade (I lead a fairly safe life)…I fell off my bike while riding to school. The nurse bandaged me up when I got there, and for the rest of the day I proceeded to limp around like I had taken a bullet. I even recall trying to get out of participating in PE class on account of my excruciating agony (the teacher didn’t buy it).
Today, as beloved wife was preparing to leave for work, I told her that she shouldn’t feel sorry for me, that my injury would not prevent me from being a good father to our treasured offspring, and that my loss of blood would not hinder my ability to make good decisions. She smiled as if to say, “You’re so brave.”
There is nothing like a skinned knee to remind you of what it’s like to be a kid again.