Katie Ryan-Anderson wrote this guest blog for momaha.
* * *
Tractors are his favorite toy and dirt, his favorite facial cleanser. Cole is 2 years old, talks like he’s 4 and is stubborn like he’s 16.
He likes to climb… trees, trucks, you and me. So naturally, on Mother’s Day, he climbed aboard his grandmother’s golf cart, parked uphill from the lake at her summer cabin.
My mother-in-law and I walked inside and I eyed him as he tinkered with the keys and pedals. I worry too much, I thought. He’ll be fine.
Here you go, Internet, one of my unfine moments. Use it to not error as I did.
I sauntered into the kitchen and heard a SNAP. Off the cart rolled, through a nautical barricade, down the hill, and toward the water. In his green overalls, Cole was seated behind the steering wheel — alone.
My husband dashed from his deck chair and I from the kitchen.
“He’s still on it, he’s still on it!” I cried as the cart turned, this time, toward a tree.
With the change in direction, Cole tumbled, onto his side. He scraped his knee and his pride, but nothing more. The cart head-banged into the tree. It, too, will recover.
I hate thinking about this. I hate even more to share publicly that it happened.
What an awful mother am I, allowing my child to play on such an apparatus without arms-reach supervision? How fortunate am I, to write this from a desk, rather than a hospital?
I know what you’re thinking. And, you’re right. I agree.
Cole is extra affectionate now. Does he know? Does he know how close he came to … let’s forgo finishing that.
But as much as the memory recoils me, I’m almost glad it happened. When Cole asks for one more kiss before bed, now I give him two.
Katie Ryan-Anderson lives and works in North Dakota with her husband and two children. She grew up in Omaha where she attended high school and college.
Picture: Cole, in my arms, wearing his green overalls just before of the almost crash. My husband, Levi, holds Connor, 4 months.
* * *