Memorial Day Narrative

It was a hot, humid day in July. The kind that makes your hair frizz and your pits stink. My dad’s softball tournament was in full swing. They were in the bottom of the fifth with two outs, and his team was up by four. “It’s candy time!” The kids would scream, and off we’d go. At the time, I was a sweaty, brown-eyed five-year-old, the youngest of three sisters, with one goal: to beat my older sisters to the front of the concession stand line. The distance from the bleachers to the licorice and lollipops was equivalent to a one-hundred yard dash. I remember my little legs took off sprinting. I was winning (at least I think I was), running faster than my sisters. Then, all too quickly, BAM! I was sprawled flat on my face, my hands and feet laid out, just hard ground beneath my stunned body, my hand sliced on a shard of broken bottle. I screamed bloody murder all the way to the emergency room. My mom tried to comfort me to no avail; I was a blubbering, hysterical mess. The nurses lifted me onto the bed and tried to calm me

This particular day tested my so-called “experience” I thought I had as a mom. During the festive gathering, my youngest daughter Sophie, seven at the time, was wielding her Grandpa’s knife while playing the present-opening assistant (Yoopers think knives are safe). Unfortunately, it did not go in her favor. She sliced her thumb and excitement quickly changed to panic. In that moment, I was reminded of my own bloody-murder scream. This time, however, I was the witness. The difference: no straight-blanket was needed; I stayed present in the moment and remained as calm as possible tending to her wound. In the end, I was reminded that memories have a funny way of triggering unforeseen connections. I gained a newfound perspective about being a mom for sure: “When life throws you a curve ball, don’t panic; just hit it out of the