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Don’t run with sticks. Unless you’re also carrying a really hard ball that you intend to whip at me.

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Posted by on March 25, 2011 at 8:35 pm

We were barely out of the car and Jake was running with a giant stick through our rock garden, which is full of sharp twigs sticking out of the ground, last year’s plant remnants. (Note to friends who have been to our cottage and are wondering what the hell I’m talking about:  rock garden. The rocky, weedy stuff next to the steps that looks dangerous for children – that’s what I call the rock garden. Easier than typing “rocky, weedy stuff next to the steps.”)  So the stick he was carrying was 5 feet long and pretty thick – more walking stick than marshmallow roasting stick. Of course, he fell and nearly impaled himself and I could not actually be that helpful initially because the little sister and I were in the middle of a need-to-poop emergency. I eventually turned my attention to my son sprawled across the rock garden, still clinging to his stick. He looked up at me and we had the stare-down to determine if this fall was going to be a big deal or not.

Somehow, I won and he calmly got up, with nary a tear or raised voice. Because I’m his very own lamemom, I said something unhelpful.

Well, I’m glad you’re not hurt,  but you know, that’s why we say not to run with sticks. There’s a tiny little lesson in this…

We all returned to the yard and Jake and I started kicking around the soccer ball, which was pretty ambitious considering I have an ankle that still doesn’t bend and am pregnant-big enough that people think I’m due in the next few weeks.  Jake soon decided he would like to play lacrosse, so we pulled the tag-sale (that’s east coast for a garage sale) lacrosse sticks and a tennis ball from the garage and started to play. I know next to nothing about lacrosse but it was fun and he was teaching me what he knew, (which is not much).

I passed the ball to him (I don’t even know if pass is the right word; lacrosse for dummies is my next web search) and he started running to catch it. He was running fast while looking for the ball, holding the stick, somehow avoiding mud, snow and and the occasional dog piles in our yard, and I was cheering for  him. He missed catching the ball by a mile but we were both proud. And glad my don’t-run-with-sticks lesson had been disregarded.

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1 Comment

  • On March 26, 2011 at 2:01 am Karen said

    Oh Jill this is fabulous. Great writing, funny and sweet story. LOVE this.

    Reply

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