On Monday my youngest learned that when you are on a swing you should not try to catch the stuffed dog your twelve year old brother is throwing to you.
Yep, she did one huge face plant off the swing.
My son, the one who wants to be a doctor, instead of trying to help his fallen sister, came running into the house screaming that my youngest wasn't moving after falling off the swing-set.
Yes, as a matter of fact, my heart did stop.
By the time I got out there my eldest daughter had climbed out of a nearby tree and was hauling her now screaming baby sister to her feet.
Um yeah, my fifteen year old was in a tree – that does sound strange. Jen was in the backyard taking pictures for her high school photography class and she wanted a different angle so she went uh, tree climbing.
To make a rambling story shorter, my little one is fine. A little bruised, and she had a headache from hitting her head, but she is fine.
But I did discover that maybe the reason I like to write is because I have a vivid imagination. My daughter had a very busy weekend and was obviously exhausted Monday night because she went to bed after she fell off the swing and slept for fourteen hours.
Since my youngest is usually my energizer bunny this is highly unusual so I uh, worried.
I checked on her hourly and I woke her up frequently during the night to make sure she was okay. Reasonably I knew I should let her sleep. But honestly? I was quietly freaking out. I imagined her bleeding to death in her sleep, I imagined brain damage, I imagined paralysis and I imagined life without her.
I imagined everything horrible that could possible happen to her when, of course, all that really happened to her was that she fell off a swing.
I am a lunatic.
I am um, her mother.