We had walked to the retention pond in our neighborhood, or the sea, if you're The Boy and a little confused about geography. The access road to it is on a slight incline, which might as well be a small mountain around here. The Boy, when he was little and still a stroller-rider, loved flying down that hill -- one of us would let him go at the top and the other would catch him at the bottom. Now, The Lad is in the stroller, but he is a Beast, so we figured he would like it, too.
As I walked down, the husband said to The Boy, "Want to race Beastie?"
The Boy did. I turned around to see The Boy careening down the hill as the husband released the stroller. The Boy was winning and, grinning wildly, veered to me -- right across the path of the stroller.
"Don't! You'll get run over if you fall!"
He stumbled, as the words came out of my mouth, having inherited my natural grace and agility. The husband yelled, I lunged and The Beast barreled over The Boy.
He was fine -- except for the tire tread mark on his forehead and a scraped elbow. As awful as this is, the husband and I both were laughing as we disentangled The Boy from the stroller wheels. He was scared and crying, but really OK, and soon he was laughing, too.
"It's like I was the stop sign," he told us as we walked home. "You gotta stop, Beastie."
I started typing this just before he went to bed.
"Whatcha doing, Momma?"
"Writing about you getting run over."
"Yeah," he drawled, obviously impressed with himself. "I got runned over."