Today we’re celebrating Molly’s 18th birthday with a bang, and some scrapes, several bruises, a splint and a CT scan.
The poor kid broke her wrist yesterday when her beloved 35-year old bike, a hand me down from a grandpa she never knew, gobbled up her flip flop and sent her hurtling to the ground.
“Should we buy you a new bike for your birthday?” I asked as we drove home from our three-hour stay at the doctor’s office. The offer appalled her.
“I love that bike,” she said. “It wasn’t the bike’s fault. It was mine. I shouldn’t have been wearing my flip flops.”
Nauseous, concussed, and dripping blood from three of her four extra long limbs, Molly then listed how this whole escapade could have been worse.
“I’m really glad it’s my right hand,” the lefty said. “At least I can still write.”
“It’s just my wrist,” she said. “It would have really been bad if it would have been my shoulder.”
“At least I was close to home. I’ve been taking some really long bike rides. I could have been in Little Chute.”
“I’m really glad they can get this thing in a cast before I leave for school.”
“I can’t watch TV or read for a while, but that’s okay. I’ve really been getting into audio books lately.”
I helped her into one of her brother Charlie’s oversized short-sleeved shirts and she said cheerfully, “Good thing Charlie liked wearing Hawaiian shirts so much.”
She spent a good bit time on the phone last night consoling various relatives who called all upset when they heard the news.
“I’m fine,” she told them repeatedly. “Don’t worry about it.”
We’re celebrating Molly tonight just like we’d planned, and I’m going to add a little gratitude of my own to the birthday toast.
I’m grateful for a writing partner whose wit keeps me chuckling, for a daughter who loves her family fiercely and for a young woman whose optimistic outlook never fails to inspire.
Happy birthday Molly B from Me.