Posts Tagged ‘helmet’

Ron and I were elated a few weeks ago when Noah actually expressed interest in something – something other than “Modern Warfare” and “Elder Scrolls” (which in case you are unaware, are video games). The moment he told us he wanted to learn how to snowboard, I sprinted to the computer and signed him up for lessons toot sweet. And wow! What a bargain! Three 2-hour lessons on Saturday mornings that included a lift ticket and equipment rental for a mere $99!

So, Friday after he arrived home from school, we headed to the board shop for a few supplies he said had to have for Saturday’s lesson since his snowmobile gear wouldn’t be “fly” enough for snowboarding. It was tough finding pants that fit his nearly 6 foot, 140 pound body but we finally settled on some candy apple red Burton ones. He also picked out some “sick” new gloves and a coordinating striped hat.

“I need a helmet,” he said. “My friends say I have to have one.” Then he jokingly pointed out a child’s Burton Star Wars one that looked like R2-D2.

After the checking the price tag on a few, the smart and thrifty mom in me said, “Ummm…no. You’re not going to need a helmet for a loooong time, especially when you’ll only be going about 2 miles an hour down the bunny hill for the next few weeks.”  I figured even if he got hit on the beginner’s hill, a 3 year old on skis wouldn’t be able to do much damage to him.

We went home and Noah organized all of his things for the next day. Then Saturday morning we all got up and were ready to head out the door by about 8:45. We had an hour drive and it was slippery so we wanted to get an early start for Noah’s 10:00 a.m. lesson. Ron went out to the car and waited while I gathered up two heaping armloads of stuff and cussed as I waddled out to load up unassisted.  Noah was already in the back seat waiting impatiently for me.

Figuring Noah would be thirsty after spending the entire day outside at the hill, I decided it would be a wise motherly thing to go back inside and get him a couple of bottles of water. After I handed off my load of stuff to Ron, I shut the car door and darted back toward the garage.

The last thing I should remember seeing (and I stress “should”) was this:

Then, I heard something that sounded a lot like this.

The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back in the garage floor. “What the…?” Then it hit me. Not realizing I had decided to run into the house to retrieve something else, Ron had pushed the garage remote.  As I was running inside, somehow I never saw the door closing and managed to hit my head square on the bottom of it.  The force of the blow sent me flying to the floor on my back and my head hit the concrete. I knew I was dead. Or pretty darned close.

Is I lay there, I saw the garage door closing above me and waited for it to eventually reach my neck and slice my head off. Then I started wondering when the heck Ron was finally going to realize that I was splayed on the garage floor.

After what seemed like an eternity, the garage door did what it was supposed to do when bikes or dead bodies are in its path: it retreated. Then I heard the car door slam and Ron ran over and peeled me off the concrete. “What happened?” he said, lifting me up. “I thought you hit your head on the garage floor!!

“Duh! I did hit my head!” I said, rubbing the back of it. I had hit it so hard, I sounded like two coconuts knocking together. “How bad do I look?” I asked.

“There’s nothing. I can’t see a thing,” Ron said examining my face.

What? I hit my head twice – once gracefully on the garage door and the second time it ricocheted off the floor. How could I not be bleeding to death? He helped me to the car where I continued to sob, mostly because I realized how really bad it could have been.

“How’s the back of your head?” he asked rubbing it. I reached back and felt it. Weird. It felt fine. All of the fat I had been storing up on my head all winter must have cushioned the fall. Ron, an EMT, checked my pupils to make sure I wasn’t hemorrhaging and after giving me the green light, we headed off to the ski hill.

“I’m okay, Noah,” I assured my silent son in the back seat who was probably wondering how in the heck his loser mom didn’t see the garage door in front of her face and ran directly into it.  But I think he was also relieved he didn’t have any friends along to witness my Fred Flintstone impersonation.

We finally did get to the ski slope and when I ran to the mirror to have one more look, my face actually looked fine. It’s bruised right between the eyes and I have a microscopic scratch, but I’ve had gnat bites worse than this. And honestly, the swelling kind of ironed out some of those pesky wrinkles I’ve been fretting about for the last few years. I could shelf that Botox idea for a little bit longer…

We sat in the chalet for the day while Noah took his lessons. He started off with his instructor, Sam, on Dandy Hill and by the time lessons were over he was skiing the Sunshine Trail. It was mid afternoon when we saw Noah blaze down Ego Mountain by himself, a treacherous black diamond hill intended for experienced skiers and snowboarders and I regretted not buying the helmet for him.

I’m thinking that this week we’ll be shopping for two helmets. One for Noah to have at his next lesson and one for me to wear around the house.

Have you ever had a close call? Did something stupid but ended up being alright? Please comment!

Were you entertained reading about this mishap? Be sure to read one of my previous posts entitled Hit the Red Button! Hit the Red Button! .

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