As a child, I was extremely active. I played lacrosse, soccer and basketball. I loved biking, roller-skating, scootering, pogo-sticking, tree climbing, etc.
My brother and I would play outside for hours and actually beat each other up. I hit him with a piñata stick, he ran over my head with a bike. I pushed him off a bed onto a Lego castle, he whipped me with an Indiana Jones whip. We would also whack each other with fake lightsabers as we reenacted Star Wars. Or we would wrestle over rocks and dirt pretending we were enemy spies. You could say we played a bit rough.
All these examples are to say that I certainly gained some scrapes and bruises over the years. I even got some permanent marks, scars, to remind me of my childhood and the silly adventures I have embarked upon.
The first scar I remember acquiring is on my right knee. When I was first learning how to ride a bike without training wheels, I learned in my neighbor’s driveway. The house next door to mine was a doctor’s office so his driveway was always empty after 5:00 p.m.
The sun was setting on a warm summer day, and I was determined to get on that bike and ride smoothly without my training wheels. So, with my purple butterfly helmet donned, I rolled my sparkly bike out of the garage. My mom and dad were standing in the driveway, ready to catch me when I fell. I hopped on the bike and began riding. My neighbor’s driveway was smooth enough. There were a few cracks and potholes, but I made sure to stay clear of them. My driveway was made of loose rock, too advanced a terrain for my untrained legs.
After several falls and many tears, I got back up one last time. I pedaled and I pedaled, and I did it! I stayed upright and I kept going. What I had not quite mastered yet was steering. So, I was barely for my rocky, advanced terrain driveway with no way to stop (I had not learned breaking yet, either). I had enough speed to make it over the rocks and a bit of grass. But the grass dropped off and turned into pavement, the sidewalk that led up to my porch steps.
My parents were too far to stop me. I fell. My legs got tangled with my sparkly bike and there were more tears. My hands and elbows were scraped up pretty bad, but worst off was my knee. It had a gaping cut that was gushing blood down my leg. My dad scooped me up quick and brought me inside. He sat me on top of the washer and left to find supplies. My mom wiped my tears and tried to calm me down.
My dad returned with the hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin and some cotton balls. Though I know it was not really that bad, I swear there was never a worse pain than the sting of that hydrogen peroxide on my cut-up knee. I howled in pain like they were amputating my leg. Once it was all cleaned up, my dad put on a band-aid, and I was rewarded with a big bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream for my bravery.
Though this particular memory is of a painful moment, it reminds me of a great time in my life. A time when my biggest worries were learning to ride a bike without training wheels and keeping my purple butterfly helmet clean. Summertime was my favorite as a kid. No school, having bonfires and smores all the time, playing flashlight tag with my family after dark, blowing bubbles at my dog, watching clouds with my dad, pretend stabbing my brother, planting flowers with my mom. I loved that time of my life. It’s nice to be able to have a permanent symbol with me all the time to remind how wonderful it was to grow up with parents that loved me and a brother that would always play with me.