So, the other day, I was just hanging out, pretty mellow, kicking it on my floor gymnasium. Mom and Dad had just changed Emmett and were in the other room washing their hands. (Can anyone say, biohazzard?)
And that’s when Emmett struck.
He came barrelling out of nowhere on a new dump truck that he’d gotten for his birthday. He was clearly out of control. Careening off of the walls, running into the dogs, and stopping for nothing in his path. The Legos stacked high in his truck bed pinged loudly off of the coffee table, landing dangerously close to my head. But I soon discovered that flying Legos were the least of my problems…
If only Emmett had stopped to read the directions, or had experimented with how to operate the brakes, then we would have all been saved from a world of hurt. But Emmett, like Mom, doesn’t believe in directions. He says he’s more “experiential.” What does that even mean? I’ll tell you what it means: Something about his dump truck “experiencing” a collision with his little brother. That’s what it means.
Regardless, Emmett and his truck were heading right in my direction and me and my big head were too heavy to lift to safety. I knew when it was too late for him to swerve. It was when my entire life flashed before my eyes. Being born. Sleeping. Eating. Mom. Dad. The dogs. It had been a life full of contenment and love. With very little crying and almost no pain to speak of. Until then.
The truck came at me with such speed that it was just a blur of black and yellow and Lego. That’s when it’s front right tire hit a picture book laying in its path and the truck was launched like a rocket through the air. If only Emmett weighed less, he might have cleared me. But, that big pig and the truck came crashing to the ground with a sickening crunch. The crunch of plastic meeting bone.
For a second I marveled at how little it hurt. But only for a second. As soon as I took my first full breath, the pain was so great that I think the neighbors could hear my yell. Mom and Dad rushed into the room, while bubbles from their still sudsy hands floated gracefully to the ground. By this point, Emmett had moved on and was playing peek-a-boo with Cooper in his tent. (Another present for his birthday.) And Mom and Dad had trouble figuring out what was wrong.
He might have gotten away with it, had the tires on his dump truck not left an imprint on the milky white skin of my legs. But, I had literally been run over, and the evidence was there for all the world to see…
Fast forward to the emergency room. Me in Mom’s arms with two, little blue casts on my legs. Emmett, in Dad’s arms, with a twinkle in his eye. This, I’m sure, will be the first of many hospital visits, courtesy of my big brother.*
*None of this is true. OK. One part is true. I do have casts on my legs. But they aren’t from an Emmett-related accident. They were put on to get my feet to point forward. I guess before I was born, I was packed so tightly into Mom’s belly that my feet didn’t have enough space. So, I folded them in and sat that way for 9 months. Now, I have to wear these casts for around 2 weeks and after that my feet should be all good. But I’m not telling anyone that. I’ll be sticking to my Emmett-ran-me-over-with-his-dump-truck story, thank you very much.
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