No Mom Is An Island

motherhood.

The scratch had been there for a week, but its itch had long preceded it. Yes, these two were brothers, and their love for each other was deep. It was affection that sometimes ran shallow.

“It’s a lightsaber wound,” I explained to the mom sitting nearest to me. I didn’t know her, but her group seemed like the type to welcome strangers – you know, no mom is an island. Besides, she was obviously concerned about the one-inch scrape I was dabbing with Neosporin. Unfortunately, her group was also the type that would maroon you for allowing weapons in the toy box. So when I revealed the violent source of my son’s owie, she looked like a woman freshly slapped.

“I have heard horror stories of children injuring each other with these kinds of toys.” She said it gracefully and with compassion like she thought I must have just stepped off the boat from a more liberal country or a trailer home.

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “We do have our share of bumps and bruises.” I tried to turn the conversation back to the playground. “So which children are yours?”

She loosened her neck that had held her head cocked toward me all through the previous shock, turned back toward the jungle gym, and found her two lovely girls, just in time to see their golden curls bouncing on the drawbridge.

Forcefully bouncing on the drawbridge.

Unwillingly bouncing on the drawbridge and crying hysterically as my dirt-faced duo terrorized them with the aforementioned bouncing.

She shrieked and ran to rescue them. I spit expletives in the sand and walked up slowly, but intentionally, behind her. She was busy wiping tears, and I was able to slip away, a grimy paw in each hand. We loaded our arsenal into the trunk and headed for home.

Maybe they won’t come back tomorrow, I resigned.