God Makes Me Fall Down

I like to think I have a little grace… All right, all right, look, I don't have grace, I don't want grace, I don't even say grace, okay?

--Elaine Benes
Seinfeld (The Chaperone episode)

If there is a God, and I personally like to believe that there is, I am pretty sure he (or she– hey, I’m liberal) likes to keep me humble by reinforcing gravity from time to time, by emphasizing it, amplifying it, if you will. Sometimes gravity is just too powerful me. This is the way I like to justify the fact that I just, well, fall down. I fall down a lot.

When I try to explain this to friends, sometimes they think I’m exaggerating. I am not. I fall down. Really. I spent most of my grade school, high school, and college experiences with purple spots all over my body. It wasn’t because I was any kind of athlete or daredevil. It was just because I seriously lack grace. Even today, my knees are usually bruised. Or scabbed. Or something.

So on Thursday, I fell down. (Again.) It was a pretty good one. If it had been someone else, I would have cackled shamelessly. (It’s not that I’m mean. I just think falling down is really funny. Probably some kind of defense mechanism after years of tripping over my own feet.)

I ripped my hand open a little and actually had to dig out some gravel that had embedded itself into my palm.

I tore my pants. Brand new black crop pants from Old Navy and of you know me and how much I hate to shop, you know that was possibly more painful than any bloody romp in the back yard.

I skinned my knees in two or three places and bled a bit on the deck, although it gave me an opportunity to discuss the wonders of beautiful red blood with my little ones.

“See how pretty and red it is? Wow! Look how good my body works! I have blood in there. Look at that! Do you see that? That’s just a little blood. It hurts a little bit, but look at that! It’s OK."

There might have also been a brief lesson in profanity before the medical lecture, but I managed to get myself together, inhale, and swallow all the curse words before they came out.

As I was catching my breath, because it really did hurt, I felt these sweet tiny fingers on my forearm. It was Lena.

Lena: “Are you OK, Mommy? Mommy, are you OK? Mommy, do you have a boo boo?”
Tamara: “Yes, Lena, I have a boo boo. It does hurt a little but it’s OK. In just a minute, it won’t hurt any more.”
Lena: “Hurt, Mommy. That hurts? Need band-aid, Mommy.”
Tamara: “That’s a great idea. Let’s get a band-aid... I’m going to need at least five band-aids, I think.”

She kept patting me on the arm and basically talked me through it.

Lena: “Get band-aid, Mommy.” She gently rubbed my arm.
Lena: “It’ll be Ooohhh Kaaay.” She nodded her head and smiled at me.

Wow. I was so touched by her compassion. She was really concerned for me, and really sweet to me. She was great. And it occurred to me that maybe she learned that from me. That’s a really nice thought.

So I fell down and Lena made it all better. My hand still hurts and I walked with a slight limp until yesterday.

It was totally worth it.