CLIC Sargent has been doing something pretty cool this month, and raising the awareness of its work by asking bloggers to write about their survival stories.
Hmm. While I’m all about a good cause or two, I have a bit of a secret to share: I’ve never really been ill. I’ve never broken a bone, or fractured anything. I’ve never had concussion. As yet, I’m blessfully untouched by any chronic conditions or serious illnesses. I don’t even get colds very often. I did used to get asthma when confronted with feather pillows or furry dogs, but even that cleared up when I was pregnant.
So I’ve been struggling a bit to come up with a ‘survivor’ story to post on my blog. “I had a bit of a sore throat but it didn’t really develop into much” isn’t exactly fingernail-biting stuff, let’s face it.
Then I realised that I consider Flea surviving each day to be a miracle – I’ve written before how I’m borderline neurotic about the many potential injuries that could befall her on any given day. Who could forget that 900 small children every year are injured by FALLING OFF LADDERS? I never even knew to be worried about ladders, until I read that ROSPA report.
I’ve considered carefully where this neurotic streak strong concern might come from – a difficult pregnancy, or hormonal balance, perhaps? Then I realise: it’s because of all the idiotic games me and my three older brothers played while we were growing up. It’s a miracle I survived.
Highlights of my early years included:
The “let’s put Sally on the handlebars of our bike, ride down a big hill straight into a wall, and she how far she flies” game
The “let’s put the bunk beds in the middle of the room and take turns swinging each other round by our ankles and letting go” game
The “let’s use these old bricks we’ve found to build a den. While we build the walls, Sally can go inside and build the floor out of wood,” game
The “let’s take the mattresses off the bed and ride head first down the stairs on them” game
The “let’s take turns running into the road as a car approaches and then fall over at the last minute so the driver thinks they’ve run us over,” game
The “let’s start a campfire in Dad’s paint shed,” game
The “let’s take turns jumping off the roof and doing stunt landings,” game
So, basically, my own experience tells me that little kids are basically like miniature kamikazes, and must be supervised at all times. To think I survived all of all the above with nothing more than a few bumps and bruises? Nothing short of a miracle.
Oh yes. I’m a survivor. Eat THAT, Beyonce.
