I’ve been “that girl” for as long as I can remember.
In fifth grade I fell into the leech pond at Camp Epworth.
I broke my front tooth on the bottom of a pool at a party in sixth.
In high school I was the one who bit it in the C-wing.
Who tripped in the cafeteria in front of Jason Jacinto and his ever wafting aura of Drakkar Noir.
Who was that girl who banged into the wall during the dance portion of the 9th Grade Chorus’s reproduction of Cats? That was me.
Don’t even get me started on college, where on any given night I was the girl who flew down the stairs at Chi Phi.
Who slid backwards down a hill in a mini skirt and knee-high boots blaming the boots for having no traction.
Whose flip flops did not hold up in the rain on those slicked library steps.
Who tumbled over a curb and broke her arm outside of SAE.
Yes, babies, I’ve been that girl…
…You know us with drains.
—Look, a drain!–
Today at the park right next to a drain there was about a maybe 2 x 2 foot puddle of mud and sludge and run-off that could only accumulate from a public park. One minute you were standing by it, Baby Boy, the next, you were face down in it like a fish. There was a collective gasp at the playground. Panicked looks of “oh my god, who is that?”
I ran and scooped you up, my little creature from the black lagoon.
As you blinked to take in what just happened, to open your eyes through the sludge dripping from your eyelashes with leaves and unidentifiable objects clinging to your wet hair and filthy limbs, I kissed your head and told you everything would be all right. We were then both soaked, and probably now have West Nile virus. Onlookers gasped and audibly wondered “what are you going to do?”
I’m that girl, and you’re my son. And we walked off holding hands like two filthy animals, together.