The Full Armor of Mom

You've seen them. Maybe you have been them. Perhaps you are even raising them... you know, bubble kids. Those children who would probably be kept, impervious from harm, in a large bubble, if that were possible without constituting abuse. Given the limitations on parental "rights", these kids are simply not allowed to step foot outside without protective gear of every description, and their lives indoors are sanitized and safe.

It's for their own good. I'm not one to criticize that sort of parenting. Firstly, I haven't managed to cross over into the great international fraternity of parents. Secondly, I think I understand the impulse perfectly. I mean, I can be rather mother-bearish about the safety and wellbeing of my indoor cats, and they have nine lives that they would much rather expend more quickly in the great outdoors (not to mention that they don't have nearly as much humanity as I assign them).

Anyway, when bubble kids are on bikes or skates or skateboards or razors or scooters or those bizarre two-wheel skateboard things that I am not young enough know the name of, they are wearing helmets, knee pads, elbow pads, gloves... anything that will soften the blow when their bodies eventually hit the pavement. They look a little bit ridiculous, it's true, but I think looks are absolutely the least important thing when it comes to remaining in one piece.

Besides the ubiquitous "water wings", I don't remember such safety measures being thrust on my generation. When I wanted to forget how to slow my butterfly-bedecked banana seat bike sufficiently before hurtling myself head-long over the handlebars right into Mr. Perry's old truck, I had nothing but my own skin and play clothes to keep me from harm. When I wanted to fall on the playground and have a concussion, I just did it... without the benefit of a brain bucket.

Anyway, I have been inspired to become a bit more of a bubble kid myself. How? No... I have no intention of cleaning the house more often. I just intend to "dress up" when I go out skating.

What inspired this change? Well, call it one of the most basic human impulses: self-preservation.

This Saturday dawned chilly and brisk for a change. Perfect weather for a lap or two around the local ice rink, we thought. So, grabbing our skates and gloves and socks, we headed over to the ice rink. Now, I just happened to be in possession of a pair of only somewhat-too-small-for-me kneepads that dated from Daniel's roller blading days. I decided to make good use of them. I am quite sure I looked ridiculous, and I would have realize that even had Daniel not remarked between guffaws that I looked, in profile, like an overgrown faun. Of course, the effect was lessened by covering my brown leggings with baggy black pants... but no matter. I was better prepared to tumble... at long as I managed to tumble forward. I've had knee surgery once. I don't want to have it again, and if I must look like an arthritic faun when I skate, so be it.

The Zamboni was in operation when we arrived, so we stepped out onto fresh, slick ice. I was on the newly-sharpened blades of brand new skates on unmarred ice. That was an interesting combination which led me to an instant feeling of panic. When we had done this two weeks ago, the ice had been skated into a very large pile of shavings that more closely resembled snow than ice, and, I assure you, the feeling is entirely different.

For the most part, the skating went very well. I lasted much longer this time, even though I did have to remove my feet from the skates twice to let them recover from the compression pain. During those breaks I had the chance to watch how the kids on the ice (most of them wearing bike helmets, at least) responded to the challenges of skating when you just don't know how to do it. Several of them regularly belly-flopped, others fell sideways. Others fell over backwards. All of them popped back up to try again. And again. And again.

I don't want to fall. It's scary. I want the security of a hand or a wall or something more solid than I. I want to be spared the indignity of whatever heap I manage to land in, too. However, this trip, I didn't always have the luxury of a hand or a wall. I wanted Dan to have fun, and sometimes that fun meant taking a lap or two unencumbered by me. The wall was removed by a line of cones that made part of the rink off-limits. I was not pleased. However, once I mustered the courage to take that stretch of ice on my own, I also managed to skate around the entire rink once or twice without stopping.

Daniel, the wise, practical one, mindful that he'd be the one scraping me off the ice when I splattered, kept encouraging me all the while: "Don't go any faster than you can manage." Good advice, that. Wish I had listened. However, I apparently can't handle motion faster than a standstill.

My moment would come.

It did... about halfway into our stay, and it was spectacular. My feet decided to move ever further apart left to right as I skated along the length of the ice, such that I was doing side-to-side splits increasingly closer to the ice, until something strained in parts of me I didn't know I had, causing my torso to pitch forward. In the end, I got up close and personal with the chilly whiteness. I imagine it looked as though I were trying to make a face-down snow angel.

When I peeled myself up off of the ground, I discovered that I had a rather lingering pain in my right leg. As a result, my exit from the ice looked more than a little gimpy. I was later informed by a friend that I now am the only person of his acquaintance to manage a groin injury "without the benefit of a Y-chromosome." Obviously he doesn't know Michelle Kwan.

Anyway, while my bouncing back was not energetic, I did get back out on the ice again, mildly strained groin and all. I was determined not to let that fear get me, even if the ice would.

Thankfully the pain has subsided quite a lot over the last few days. I haven't needed pain medicine and I can walk normally again. And you know what? My knees, which took the brunt of my actual impact on the ice, are fine. God bless knobby faun legs!

Determined to learn my lesson from this, I have now ordered padded shorts (protecting the hips and tail bone), elbow and knee pads that fit, wrist guards and a helmet. Daniel threatens to get me in full hockey gear someday. That, I am to understand, is what it is to feel safe on the ice. In the meantime, I will enjoy some measure of increased security in the form of my unnatural padding, because I realize it is not a question of if I will fall again. It's a question of when and how and whether I will be able to get back up again afterwards.

I, now comfortably in my 30s, have become an ice-skating bubble kid. I'm not sure, but I think my mom may be proud of me. It is, after all, for my own good. Add to that all a little measure of good sense and a bit of humor when I tumble, and I will have put on the full armor of mom. After all, life's full of tumbles. It's just a matter of being ready--in one piece--to pop back up and try again.