The Hand.

     Not sure if you've ever ridden in a cheap wagon with a kid who was battling childhood obesity sitting right behind you, but it's not as exciting as you'd think. First of all, the steering is not what I'd call responsive; it's actually not even sluggish. It's awful. Wagons either go straight or instantly turn 90 degrees. Plus, if I'm ever on a bobsled team, I'll know from experience where to put the big guy. If you put him in the back, you'll go way faster than you actually want, the only problem being stopping. There are no breaks on a Red Flyer Wagon; I've checked. Using my feet and hands far more than my brains, I tried to slow us down, only to have my hand stay in place while the wagon continued forward. After having my hand run over, and hearing an odd crunch, I decided that wherever the wagon stopped moving was the perfect place for me to get out and go home.
     I walked back home, pretty sure I broke something in my hand, wanting my mom to fix it. I went up to her, told her what happened, and asked her to take a look. She poked and prodded, then asked me if I could move my thumb, and wiggled stuff around. Her "professional" opinion? I was fine, now go play outside. I went out and started playing basketball by myself. Then, without warning, someone apparently inserted a tennis ball where my hand was supposed to be. It looked like I was wearing an inflated medical glove. The days of my mother being a doctor were over.
     Naturally, it was broken, which x-rays and a trained doctor proved. The thing that I still wonder about is how my mom could tell me it was okay, and all of a sudden it was! That kind of power is amazing to me. How is it that "kissing a boo-boo" is the salve of the god's? I hope I'll be able to illicit that type of calming affect in my children, but I won't be surprised if I can't. That's a mother's power. The best I can hope for is telling her to walk it of...