Yesterday we returned from our weekend road trip to discover that summer, hot on the trail of a much anticipated and notably delayed spring, had arrived. According to my thermometer, it was ninety-one degrees. According to the frizz in my hair, it was muggy.
Suffice to say, it felt more like August than May.
The key difference between this day and a ninety-one degree muggy day in August, though, is the fact that the yard remained lush. Grass that just had been cut needed to be cut again. Although in need of watering, new blooms adorned our perennials. Everything was green and vibrant and sultry, rather than browned and burnt out and sultry.
After dinner the girls and I headed outside so I could water the plants. Reese walked barefoot through the yard as I unwound the hose. Kerrington happily splashed her hands in a dishpan of water that I had set on the patio as I dragged the hose to the side flower bed.
Then Kerrington got up to walk -- arms aloft for balance -- and beelined for the hose reel that's adjacent to the patio. Her feet were moving much too fast, and I watched her trip, roll, and knock her forehead directly on the side of the patio.
And this morning the poor baby looked like this:
If you squint, her cut almost looks like it's in the shape of Texas. It also seems to be as large as Texas, especially given the amount of sideways looks we received this morning when we ran to the grocery store.
I've been dabbing Neosporin on her forehead, amazed at how unaffected she seems. If I had a bruise and scrape the size of Texas, I'd be letting everyone know.
When I was a kid -- especially during summer -- my knees perpetually were scraped and scabbed. I thought nothing of it. Now that I'm an adult I've lost this toughness. Right now I have a scab the size of a quarter (okay, a dime) on my left knee, and gosh, it hurt when I was kneeling on the floor to give the girls their baths last night.
My children are much tougher than I am.