Go Cry For Your Mother

April 25, 2008
By Nathan Leach, Spokane, WA

Go Cry For Your Mother

It all happened out on the street, with the gang of kids that lived in my neighborhood. These kids knew me well; I was growing up with them at the time. We were all good friends. My neighbor’s parents had just given them on of those Barbie, battery powered, kid-size cars that were actually drivable. It was the hottest thing on the whole block, white, with pink wheels and Barbie memorabilia all over the hood and side doors. However, irresponsible as they were, one night they left their Barbie Car’s power turned on overnight, and it blew out the battery. Trauma struck our whole group.

Now the only means of playing with it was to have a couple people in its two, pink plastic seats while one or two others stood behind and pushed. This was still quite fun, but someone was bound to get hurt. Same as any other day, someone always runs in crying for his or her mommy.

One certain day, it was my turn to go crying for my mommy. Now I’m not totally sure how this happened, but there was a nice gash in one of the pink, now pavement-treated wheels, leaving a rigid piece of plastic to stick out of the bottom of the wheel. Anyway, this particular day, the game was: Chase Someone With the Barbie Car Until Someone Gets Hurt and We All Go Inside Because We Don’t Want To Get in Trouble. The lucky someone was, of course, me. Now I pride myself in my running capabilities, so I was sure able to outrun a couple kids crouched over pushing a 60 lb Barbie Car. However, what I did not excel at was looking out for debris in front of me while I’m looking over my shoulder at my soon-to-be Barbie Car assailants.

I was running, laughing and playing along with my friends, when I heard, “Look out!”

But before I could even comprehend who said what, I was rolling head over heels over the top of a blue recycling binge. Now there’s not much one can do when sprawled out on the pavement with a 60 lb Barbie Car flying at you at a good eight to ten miles per hour.

I was terrified, I could not move a single muscle. It ran over my right heel and I was fortunate enough to have the rigid-plastic-wheel dig into my skin and bone. Now crying out in pain, everyone ran inside, predictably, crying for their mommies. My whole life was flashing before my eyes, I remembered my 5th birthday party, it was a costume party, I was a Green Dragon and my friend Dustin was a Dirty Pirate, generic. Back in reality, I thought I was going to die.

In a daze, my neighbor’s father, Don, picked me up and carried to my own house. I never looked back, for I was sure to see a large pool of blood, reflecting myself with Death looking over my shoulder.

Now on my front doorstep, Don ringed the doorbell. I did not want to let my parents know that I had just been run over by a Barbie Car, how could I have been so childish and irresponsible? Oh right, I was only eight years old. But at the time, I was sure their punishment would be merciless.

How naïve I was, my mother took me in with loving arms and took me straight to the sink, where she gently washed away the mixture of dirt and blood. I was silent. My mind was still racing, going over what had just happened, amazed on how I had made it out alive.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book