Skinned Knees

September 10, 2009 at 9:42 pm (bicycles, divorce, family, infidelity, parenting, relationships) (divorce, family, humor, infidelity, marriage, parentng, relationships)

I fell while riding my bike today.  OK, I wasn’t actually riding.  I was more standing astride the bike, at a busy intersection, but luckily on the sidewalk.  While I’ve mostly mastered balance while moving, I seem to have some problems while standing still.  My knee oozed rather than bled, with bright red spots springing to the surface and sliding into the curve of my knee.

Luckily, I knew there were knee-sized Band-aids and Neosporin at home.  When I picked Ben up from school after his weekend with his dad, he limped like a peg-legged pirate.  His knee was covered with a square of gauze, skull and cross bones drawn on the tape.

“What happened to you?”  I asked with a mix of concern and amusement.

“Fell off my skateboard,” he said, in his best tough-guy voice.  He was scraped down his arm and hand, too.

“Where were your pads?”

“I couldn’t find them at daddy’s, and me and Ethan went skating in the park for the morning.  On the way back to Tiffani’s, I got going too fast, tried to do a trick and fell.  There were some people gardening in their yards and they helped me get cleaned up.”

This is the moment of truth for me. I hear something pretty upsetting from Ben, and I have to decide whether to let my shock and disapproval show, or let it slide and try to address it with Brett later.  Shock and disapproval have their place; he needs to know that some things aren’t safe.  And if Brett isn’t gonna protect him, then Ben needs even more common sense than he otherwise would.  But I run the risk of making Ben feel like he can’t tell me what really happens, or that somehow he’s responsible for making problems for Brett.

On the other hand, trying to address it with Brett is more than useless.  I forgot this for a moment, and sent him an email: “Why didn’t you tell me about Ben’s injuries?  Why wasn’t he wearing his pads?”  I know, I could have been less accusatory.

While I typed this on my blackberry, Ben went on: “Daddy was at Tiffani’s paying bills, so I called him and he came around with the car.”  Shock and horror must have shown on my face, because he quickly added, “He was only a few blocks away.”

Oy, now I’ve gone and done both.  Might as well go all the way, “Ben, you know that you need knee and elbow pads with the skateboard.  You need to have those when you ride. If you don’t have them, don’t ride, or call me and I’ll bring some to you.”

I did, of course, get a choice response from Brett including how skinned knees are no big deal (true), how I should have Band-aids on hand (I did, just not in my car), and how he teaches Ben to be an athlete, not an “out of shape spectator.” (Really?  You need to dig at my “shape?”)

Brett was equally choice about the last time I skinned my knee.  Knees, actually.  A few years ago, I went out for a business dinner with a big group.  I met my friend Katy for a drink before, and as we walked between the bar and the restaurant, my new heels caught on the curb and I went down hard on the bare skin under my skirt.  It hurt.  A lot.  And all through dinner my knees throbbed while I tried to talk about Congress and federal budgets.  For weeks, they crusted and oozed and stuck to the inside of my pants.

Years later—YEARS!—Brett told me he never believed the story about my knees.  This was in the heat of his insistance that I had cheated on him.  I guess he thought I was on my knees in the parking lot while my boss ordered appetizers inside?  Seriously, what grown woman skins her knees while cheating on her husband?  What does he think the world of government workers is like?  Doesn’t he know we are all dreary, gray bureaucrats, not tarts giving hummers in a gravel lot?

There’s a book about raising Jewish children (but good for any children) called The Blessing of a Skinned Knee. It preaches giving your children room to fall down, to fail, and not expecting them to be good at everything all the time.  I mean, as adults, we aren’t expected to be able to do EVERYTHING well, but kids are expected to be athletic, charming, mathematic, literate, musical, all at the same time.   Why should they?

And really, why should I?  I absolutely believe that I ought to make lots of money, keep a clean house, be part of the PTA, entertain the kids, have fabulous dinner parties, etc., etc., etc.  In my own mind, I am supposed to be super mom, super employee, super wife, and super maid.  Well, super wife is off the list, replaced by the struggles of being super ex-wife.  I guess I missed on that front.  And maybe that is the real skinned knee, oozing and scabbing and bleeding again and again.  May it be a blessing.