Monday, January 17, 2011


According to, the definition of falling is to drop or descend under the force of gravity.  My son is well acquainted with the act of falling, falling at least three or four times a day and in spectacular fashion.  It’s as if his body is not quite able to keep up with his active little mind that is going constantly from the moment his eyes pop open in the morning until he bounces backwards into his bed at night. I have images of him tumbling out of the car in his taekwondo uniform right in front of the glass doors to the building, somersaulting down the hillside at the park where he was previously riding his bike down full bore or catapulting down the hill in his ninja costume on Halloween night.  Sometimes I just hear him falling up the stairs behind me as we are coming into the house.  I’ve grown accustomed to his falling, expecting them almost and do not get alarmed unless there is a significant amount of blood, which amazingly there is not.  In fact, I even admire the way  he is willing to fall over and over at the ice skating rink or in the culdesac on roller blades until he learns how to skate or rollerblade. 
I've learned much about the difference between little boys and little girls, still have much to  learn.  They are an impulsive, transparent breed, acting before thinking most of the time.  I find myself just staring at him after one of his antics and all I can ask is"Why?"  But what has surprised me the most since I came to have a son 3 1/2 years ago is that with every ridiculous, spectacular fall, he would catapult himself full bore right into my heart. 


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