Yes, we knew ahead of time that riding a Razor Scooter down the hilly streets of our neighborhood could lead to trouble. But we'd heard the promises--public safety ads, teachers, sundry sages--assuring us that the key to safety was no further away than the nearest bike helmet. No matter how dangerous the activity, the Helmet-Powers-That-Be watch over you and surround you with shell of loving safety that begins the moment you click the plastic helmet strap under your chin, don't they? Don't they???
Well, no, apparently. They don't.
Instead, they watch in sadistic glee as you embark on your journey with growing anticipation. They encourage the rush of adrenaline as you begin zipping down the hill, the world flying past you in a blinding blur. They let you bask in the exhilaration of the wind rushing past your skin.
Then they let a little rock (or whatever) catch your Razor Scooter's wheel, and they laugh as that wind-exhilarated skin is torn off of your body by the silky smooth caress of the asphalt beneath you.
So today, L is hobbling around with a twisted ankle and livid patches of road rash on elbows, wrists, and knees. And tomorrow, she gets to hobble around a new school, up and down flights of stairs, trying to find her classes. Sheesh!
I know we should count our blessings that it wasn't any worse. The helmet did work, after all, so her skull is still in one piece. And she didn't get any of her teeth knocked out. And she won't actually need corrective plastic surgery, even on her elbows. No broken bones. No broken nails. Heck, she didn't even lose an eye.
It's just that, sometimes, it's hard to count your blessings when you're oozing blood on the carpet.
MOJ