There are days when I do everything wrong, when I end up crying in the bathroom at work and yelling at small animals, when my bike chain falls off and my new pants get covered in grease, when I lose my keys and my wallet and my sanity. Those are bad days. Then there are the days where I keep hurting myself accidentally, slice of the finger while cutting tomatoes, stubbed toe as I walk from one room to another, bruised shin as low furniture darts out to attack me, twisted neck as I dream in awkward positions. When I have an accident, bruising day, I remind myself to pay more attention, to be more aware of wayward furniture and deceptively sharp knives. It usually passes within a few days and I return to a fairly pain-free existence.
Today was D's turn to face the wrath of the accident gods. To start, he did a faceplant in the grocery store at nine a.m. this morning, giving himself a nice fat lip. Many tears later, we went to the park. D ran out into the road (no, he wasn't hit by a car) and had a meltdown when I reprimanded him, throwing himself to the ground and scraping his knee. More tears. On return from the park, he ran towards the door at top speed, fell, managed to shove his finger into the door which then promptly shut, leaving his finger wedged in between. More tears and this time, howls of disbelief and rage. If he were more articulate, he might have said, "Why me?!"
Then as he farted around next to the screen of the patio door, he got stung by a wasp. Pain and shock and more tears. "The bee bit me!" And then an eventual drop into a hot afternoon nap, two throbbing fingers, a scraped knee, and a fat lip. Poor little fella.
It's not even three o'clock yet.
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