Letters from Grenada

I have a long, clumsy history of screwing up my feet. Like the time I went camping and stepped on a rusty nail. Or the time I walked barefoot into the Hudson River and stepped on a broken bottle. And then there was the Donnie Wahlberg incident, wherein I decided to dismantle the cheap-o frame the poster had come in, because I thought it would look better bare and thumbtacked to my bedroom wall. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it was behind actual, real glass. I will spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say I’ve still got a visible scar on my big toe.

The first time I sprained my ankle I was in 9th grade. Walking across campus, I stepped down from the blacktop to the grass, and somehow managed to miss the concrete step and a half that separated them. Never mind that I’d successfully navigated that step and a half nearly every school day from the time I was eight. All of a sudden I was just sitting on the ground, terrified to stand up because I’d heard, I swore I’d heard my ankle crack.

I was sure it was broken but it was only sprained. And not even that badly. Apparently I’ve got really loose ligaments. (It’s the yoga.)

After that my ankle got more prone to injury. Like the first sprain was a gateway to more and more spectacular injuries. A year later I went down during a varsity basketball game. Accidentally kicked the headmaster in the face while he was trying to untie my sneaker. The following summer I slipped on some loose rocks in the French Pyrénées, and found myself limping all the way to Andorra, where I did what any red-blooded American 17-year-old would have done. I bought a bottle of Wild Turkey. Tax-free. In a supermarket. Because I could.

Fast-forward fifteen years. I’m pregnant with Bean and have suddenly learned to be careful. Carrying my child, I became very aware of things I’d never before given much consideration. Every bite of food I put in my mouth. How close I’d approach just-painted boats and and their potentially hazardous fumes. Every single step I took. It was of vital importance that the ground underneath my feet be solid. Stable.

Bean’s a little boy now. Not really a baby. He’s in school four days a week. Stuff happens to him that I only know about because he tells me. Not too long ago, I was with him nearly every single moment he was awake, and him having a life apart from me would have been unfathomable. So when I see him sneeze into the crook of his elbow, I acknowledge that I wasn’t the one to teach him that, and I decide it’s OK. I let go of it and don’t study the fact that the real letting go has yet to begin.

(I won’t pretend that I wasn’t thrilled when his teacher told me that he said he couldn’t sing with her because he only sings with Mommy. Won’t even try.)

Bean was at school today when I twisted my ankle. I guess even after all these years the tendons remain nice and loose. (I still do yoga.) And I guess I’ve forgotten or at least relaxed the habit of careful stepping. Because I simply don’t know how it happened. How I missed the single step into my own garage. But I did, and I went down, and I screamed and screamed, more in frustration and surprise than pain.

Tonight, after dinner but before I went to my class, I showed Bean my ankle. He marveled at how swollen it was, put his little hands right on the black and blue and said,

“But I don’t understand, Mommy. How did you fall down? You can’t fall down. You know how to walk.”

It’s true, baby. Mommy knows how to walk real well. She does. But sometimes, just for a minute… she forgets.

Posted on February 10th, 2010 under Grenada • Tags: childhood stories, clumsy, family, from the mouths of babes, joaquin the illustrious bean, love, motherhood, school, sprained ankles. •  Print This Post •  Email This Post • RSS 2.0 feed • Leave a response, or trackback