We had a lovely time on our vacation; but, if I'm honest, I feel a little shortchanged. Let me explain.
My parents have a cat, Ichabod. They call him Icky for short. (Benjamin calls him IchaBOB) One day my brother observed a funny scene with Icky and Levi:
In typical toddler fashion, Levi was meandering along. In typical Icky mode, the cat was trying to stand in front of the person's legs, ("He always does that!") in order to get attention, or play, or whatever. Well Ichabod couldn't guess where Levi was going to step next. So Levi is walking along and Icky is hopping around like a crazy cat, trying his darnedest to get in front of his legs.
Funny! Cute! A Cat/Kid Tango! Right? Wrong. Oh, the dramatic irony. Little did I know what would happen next.
Later that day out in the yard Jacob was digging the foundation for a chicken coop. Levi had his new awesome light-up bouncy ball and was throwing it in the dirt.
"That works better on the driveway, babe!" I coo. And in an effort to help my baby have more fun, show him how it's done, AND get him out of the way of his dad's shovel, I say, "Toss it over here!" to Jacob, who has retrieved the bouncy ball.
He gives it a nice toss and in a moment I realize that it works WAY better on the driveway than the dirt and I'm going to have to grab that (precious, special, light-up) bouncy ball (now sailing over my head) before it bounces off into the desert. Or that big stack of hay bales over there.
I turn, step, see a flash of unmistakable Icky white, and plant solid on the driveway, hands and knees. I take stock. I decide to stay where I am.
"Are you okay?" says Jacob.
"Nope." I say, and sort of slump down into a worshipful position.
After a few more moments I decide I'm probably okay enough to get into the house for some first-aid, as it appears no one is rushing up to me with ice packs and bandaids. I stand.
My pants, new pants, have a hole in the knee. And that's what really did it. I liked those pants. And now they would be ruined and I could not take them back to the cold Illinois winter and just wear them with a hole in the knee because it is COLD for reals in Illinois.
I was hurt. I was sad. I was, for a short time, angry. If that cat had crossed my path again that day ... things might have gotten ugly.
But let me tell you something. There's nothing like having your mom treat your skinned knee.
She washed it out for me (while I whined to her about my pants). She told me the story of her most memorable skinned knee: She came into the house after wrecking her bike. Her dad looked her up and down and said, "Is the bike okay?" A shocking inquiry. "You," he said, "will heal. But is the bike okay?"
So she understood about the pants.
She set me up with the finest in her medicine cabinet -- spray, ointment, frozen peas, tylenol, chocolate. And my brother (he who provided the foreshadowing) was dispatched for special, bigger bandaids.
All this is to say that I couldn't go horseback riding the next day. *clink* (Can you hear the sound of my change, coming back short?)
But I guess if a white cat crosses your path it's not all bad. My dad took Jacob and Benjamin, and snapped a few photos to bring back for the injured. And for the sleeping Levi.
I love introducing our babies to horses. This is because they quickly learn to make real horse noises. Horses puff and snort much more often than they whinny or neigh. Despite missing the ride, Levi was snorting like a horse in no time.
p.s. Icky did not come near me again for the duration of our visit. Our tango must not have been fun for him, either.
p.p.s. My mom patched my jeans. With a stripey heart-shaped patch. <3
