I cut my wrist this weekend. Not on purpose. I was making dinner, peeling garlic specifically, and the next thing you know the knife met my skin and sliced it open. There was blood, but not enough to re-enact a Saw III scene (actually, which Saw are we on now? I can’t keep up). Lucky for me, it was a minor band aid injury.
And this is Little Miss’ own post-accident face.
We went to our favorite playground, and she missed a step while scaling the play structure, smacking her face on the edge as a result. Bloody lip ensued, followed by discoloration on her cheek. There were tears, but nothing some juice couldn’t quell, and it didn’t even ruin her resolve to play, puffy lip and all.
Last, and certainly least (of my worries), is My Guy’s “injury” from the same play structure.
Seriously. That faint little brownish dot on the top right of the thumb? A splinter. Or what’s left of it, embedded into his skin. Yes, the picture is actually magnified 10 times the original size, but if you zoomed in even further, you will see what I’m talking about. He insisted that it hurt so this is what you’re straining to look at - his trauma from the weekend, appearing as an honorable mention because hey, we wouldn’t want to leave daddy out now do we?
So there you have it, our collective mishaps from the weekend. To ponder upon the fragility of life from these incidents would be joke. I mean a cut, a bloody lip and a (miniscule) splinter are hardly newsworthy, yet it did make me pause when I thought about that knife slicing across my wrist. A couple of inches deeper and this would have been a different post.
Ironically, My Guy had made a remark before I started prepping in the kitchen, “You’re using that knife? It’s the worst we have in the house.” I defended my choice, saying it only needed to be sharpened, but as usual, I was too lazy to actually do it so I suffered through working with a blunt tool (as I have been for the past few months due to my incorrigible sloth). I’m just glad that for once, my laziness paid off (See, mom? It’s not always a bad thing). Yet, I shudder to think - what if I had sharpened it?
But that’s just it – I didn’t. And perhaps I should just walk away from it, grateful for this fate, because there are just too many what if’s in life. To always imagine the alternative that didn’t happen is a futile exercise, yet we all indulge in it to some degree. I have to admit, I’m that person. The one who constantly imagines the worst. In fact, ever since I became a parent, doomsday scenarios float haphazardly in and out of my head, and they make me want to wrap my family up in bubble wrap and crawl into a hole with them. Preferably one with a decent buffet.
The fear of the what-ifs can consume me. What if Little Miss fell backwards and hit her head the wrong way instead? What if My Guy…um…oh wait. I got it! What if the splinter was actually a wooden stake and he was a vampire, and it went straight through his heart? I mean, come on, it’s all possible…ish. Right?
But I have to fight the daily urge to prevent my family from leaving my side because well, we have our lives to live. Places to be. People to become. I’m fully cognizant of the risks in each step we take, every decision we make, but I have to trust that our forward motion isn’t always in the direction of a maelstrom. Things happen. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. And I will deal with them as they come because frankly, I won’t have a choice then. But I do have a choice now.
The what-ifs will always be there. Life won’t. I don’t want to miss out just because I’m too afraid to live and let live. That’s why, as difficult as it is for me, I’m making myself learn to let go of my fear and just let life happen. Because if I didn’t, it’s not living.
But if I did, it could be a beautiful thing.