I may have been carrying too many bags.  That would be three.

I may have been wearing the wrong shoes.  Those would be clogs.  (‘Feet shoes’ are the ones you wear because they can last you all day and your feet love you for it.  ‘Head shoes’ are the ones you wear just because they’re so cute and outfit-completing that it would be poor stewardship not to.  The clogs were head shoes.)

I definitely stepped on a patch of ice.  And that’s the tricky thing about February in the Colorado: it’s springtime in the sun, but it’s still winter in the shade.

I didn’t even know I was falling.  There was no weeble-wobble scramble to catch my balance.  It was just – Boom.  Down.  Squarely on my left knee.  And a little on my right knee, and definitely some on both palms.

But a whole lot on that left knee.

The bags landed several feet away (including the iProducts therein, which have henceforth been acting a bit wonky).  My indestructive water bottle was half a block away, and sadly destructed.

A moment later, I was still quite splayed and barely gathering myself, when I heard, “Are you okay?  Can I help you?”

I swear to you: he was Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid.  I’m sure of it.

He gathered my things and walked with me to my car.  Of all the days to bring four million things with me to carry.  “Maybe next time you should pack a rolling suitcase,” he said.

With his great hair, he said that.

No exchange of anything but first names.  That’s it.  He was piling my stuff into the minivan (sweet ride, Trish), amidst the backpacks and coffee cups and boys’ clothes that travel with me always (classy, Trish).  And then he and his great many attributes disappeared into the springtime sunshine and wintertime shade.

I drove myself home like a total trooper, spent the evening with Advil and frozen peas, and nursed my MacBook back to health.  Now I am on one crutch, as needed, mostly only when I’m walking.

I’d show you the picture I took of the sad state of affairs that is my knee, but the picture might not do it justice and you’d think, “Oh, for crying out loud, you big baby.  Stop your complaining.  Some people don’t even have knees.”

And just to show that some things never change, I hobbled up the sidewalk to Tyler’s kindergarten exit, balancing the one crutch and my car keys, and my sweet son took one look at me and asked me to carry his backpack.

I will not carry your backpack.  I will not.  I will, however, take advantage yet again of the Domino’s Pizza app on my phone, we will watch movies about Garfield and Ratatouille, and we will eat ridiculous amounts of gummy worms and bears.

Because my knee is killing me and I can’t be asked to parent responsibly on this night.

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