Tuesdays: MAY I tell you something about myself?
Wednesdays: MAY I ask something about you?
Thursdays: MAY I tell you something about someone else?
Fridays: MAY I share something funny?
You can find out all the details by clicking the banner in this post or the button on the right side of my page (both created by the talented Tracey Neithercott). I hope you join in. This blogfest promises to be a lot of fun!
So, then... May I tell you something about myself?
I am a Klutz with a capital K. If there's a wall, I will walk into it. If there's a toy on the floor--and when isn't there, in a house with two small kids?--I will trip over it. If there's a hole, I will fall into it. If there's a set of stairs, I will fall down (or up!) them. I think you get the picture.
My life of klutziness began the moment I learned to walk. I, of course, don't remember those days, but according to witnesses (mainly Mom, Dad, and Brother), I couldn't walk two feet without slamming into something, bumping into something, or falling on my face. Apparently I was a walking bruise, which, come to think of it, probably helps to explain all those pictures in which I'm wearing hats and long sleeves. Curiously, no one seemed to be bothered by my apparent klutziness. (Well, I was probably bothered.) It wasn't until I was nearly five years old that people (namely the kindergarten registration people) determined that maybe--just maybe--I couldn't see very well.
They were right, and off I went to get my first in a long line of glasses. (I've been wearing them now for almost thirty-five years. Yikes!) Once those glasses were firmly in place on my face, everyone sat back and breathed a sigh of relief: Dana's klutziness was cured!
Um, not so much.
|Not my thumb--but how easily it could be.|
Image courtesy of Jana Kollarova,
Apparently, my eyes have nothing to do with it. I am--I confess--completely and utterly uncoordinated. I can't control my limbs; I certainly can't dance. I can, however, walk into doorways, trip over coffee tables, bump my head on open cabinets, walk into the corners of the kitchen table, slice off the tips of my fingers while cutting vegetables, walk into open car doors (not to mention slam my fingers in them), and trip over invisible objects.
I have no excuse. I'm just a Klutz.
Unfortunately, my five-year-old son seems to have inherited my klutziness gene. Just last Sunday as we were getting ready for church, I heard a cry from the kitchen and ran downstairs, nearly breaking my leg as I stumbled over a blue Mega Blok and my two-year-old's stuffed Minnie Mouse, only to find my son sitting dazed on the floor, crying and holding his head. This is the conversation that ensued:
Me: (panicked, looking for blood) What happened? What happened? Are you okay?
Son: (gasping for breath between screams of blood murder) I bumped my head.
Me: (looking around and wondering what he possibly could have hit his head on, as he was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room) On what? There's nothing here.
Son: (wailing) On the wall!
(And sadly, this wasn't his first time at the rodeo.)
So there you have it. I'm a klutz, and unfortunately, it appears that I'm raising another one. I guess what they say is true: the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.