And there was blood.

He was close enough that I could see him.

But far enough away that I couldn't hear him.

Riding up and down, up and down.

On his bike on the concrete ramp at the park.  He'd sped ahead too fast for me to yell at him to stay close.

But he'd been here plenty of times.  I told myself.  Shrugging off the sense of uneasiness.

I turned for a moment to my little one who's small legs weren't taking him as fast as I was encouraging.

He had insisted on riding his Strider bike.  He wanted to be just like his big brother.



But after 5 minutes of going .000001 km/hr he became frustrated that he wasn't going, really, anywhere.

So here I was with what felt like a 10 lb Toy Story back pack filled with the necessessties.

Wipes, snacks, diapers, water bottles.

(But no First Aid Kit - when will I learn?!)

Plus a helmet, a bike and an almost 2 year old who, despite my gentle encouragement to get a move on was lollygagging through the massive soccer field.

The moment I had turned my head.

The second my attention was diverted...

I turned back and he was down.

No biggie.

He is his Father's son (and mine for that matter) after all.  Falling is second nature.

Usually it's a dust off the ol' pants and he's off again.  My 3 year old?  He is tough.

And then I saw a Mother walking toward him from the playground area.

He wasn't getting up.

Then 3 ladies were running.

Toward him.

In a millisecond I scooped up Finley and started to run.

Fast.  Faster.

I couldn't get there fast enough.


My little guy giggled in my ear as the wind sailed past his ears, his hair flying off his face.

Bounce,bounce,bounce.  Upanddownupanddown.

Unbridled joyful laughter of my 2 year old as my 3 year old's screams became louder.

And louder.

A dichotomy of sounds for a Mother if there was ever one.

The hand of fear rose up through my belly, stopping and squeezing the heart in my chest.

I.need.to.run.faster.

The screams won out.

I dropped everything.

Yes, my 2 year old too. (well, I was a little more gentler with him of-course)


I ran as fast as my legs could take me...which still wasn't fast enough.

I could see the blood.

It was coming from his mouth.

The wadded up ball of tissue one of the mother's had given him to put to his mouth was soaked, little pieces sticking to his wound.

Bright red.

I arrived and grabbed a hold of him looking closely as my stomach turned, muttering, "Oh shit."  (Great.  Not only am I being judged for being negligent I am now a parent that uses curse words in front of my children.)

Blood of any kind makes my belly quiver.

Blood from the mouth?

Eeeee.

Ahhhhh.

No matter how many times this has happened to him (and it's happened a few) one can never get used to the blood and the painful howling of their child.  I suppose none of us do.  Ever.

One of the Mother's retrieved my little one as the others gathered with me trying to get a good look at my son's bloody mouth.

No chance.

But I could see that he still had his teeth.

That was a relief.

His upper lip was puffier than Anglina Jolie's 2 lips put together.  And his little chin looked pretty scraped up too but it didn't look like a trip to the emergency room was required.

I gathered him in my arms, along with all the other stuff that comes with trips to a park with children.

I glanced around frantically to find Finley standing precariously and proudly on the 2.5 foot high concrete wall.

Oh great.  Just what I needed.

I coaxed him down as one of the helpful Mom's provided her assistance back to my truck.

The truck that now seemed so, so very far away.

The whole way to the parking lot my arms burned and my chest remained clenched as Adrian wailed.

And wailed.

While Finley walked behind us holding hands with the sweet little girl of the lovely, helpful Mother.

My poor sweet tough guy.  He's feeling much better now thank God.
But really.  How pitiful is this picture.