Something I read the other day prompted me to think about the scrapes children can get in to and the injuries they can sustain, because children are children and they do daft things.
One wonders sometimes how any of us make it to adulthood.
I thought it might be fun to think about childhood scrapes – and hope that some of my lovely readers might share some of theirs.
I briefly mentioned one of my scrapes in a message on another blog recently.
I was very young – 5 or so – and asked my mum if I could go to call on my friend who lived just a couple of doors away . Mum said yes – this was the 70s, five year old children were allowed to go to a house a couple of doors away with no-one having a nervous breakdown.
In the street some workmen had lifted the cover off a big manhole, there were no workmen around, I am not sure if there was anything warning potential passers-by of the danger of falling in to a large hole. I must have peered in and fell in, knocking myself out cold.
A while later mum popped to my friends house to get me and they said I hadn’t been there. Panic ensued, all the neighbours out, all nearby streets being searched for missing child, police called. Workmen, returning from wherever they had been were asked to join in the search and thought they better put the cover back on the manhole in case anyone fell in it – that is when I was found. Some hours had passed.
I remember none of this but it was a story my parents dined out on! It was the 70s!
I was once blamed for my brother breaking his leg. We were on the top of the slide in our garden, we had towels around our shoulders as we were playing superheroes – and all good superheroes need a cape, don’t they? I suggested we jump from the top of the slide – because all true superheroes regularly jump from the tops of slides! I jumped and landed on the grass, all was good. My brother jumped off the other side of the slide, landed on the concrete path and broke his leg. My fault or his stupidity – whenever we get together the jury remains out on that one!
One more (again concerning my brother but still not my fault). We were in the garden, I was reading he was playing with the large garden shears (he shouldn’t have been, my mum hadn’t given them to him as a toy) but they were (for the purposes of his game) a samurai sword. He tripped, he fell, was more or less harpooned, there was a lot of blood.
And a lot of screaming – mostly from me as I ran in to the house screaming ‘*****’s dead, *****’s dead’. My mum (in the kitchen doing something) ran towards me and I screamed some more about him being dead. Dead(!) brother had dragged himself across the garden and was saying ‘I’m not dead, I’m not dead’, at which point I turned back to my mother and screamed ‘he is, he is’. He wasn’t, he isn’t, but it was quite an injury and took some time (in hospital and recovering at home) to get over. It has ever since been suggested by him that I am a bit rubbish in a crisis – I can’t think why!
So, anyone else want to share tales of how/why it is a miracle that they are still here today?