Man on the Run

Our trip to Grandma's house in Greensboro last weekend ended with a bang. Literally.

As we packed up the car to head home, LJ streaked down the front hallway like a bat out of hell. If it had been the NFL combine, his draft stock would have sky rocketed.

Instead, with the storm door securely closed, LJ's face met the plexiglass with a sound that my husband described as an "explosion."

There was a fair amount of blood after impact, and he had a bruised ego, a headache and a sore nose for a few days. But considering the collision, we were lucky that nothing was broken -- either the door or LJ's nose.

LJ handled the blood, the pain, and the shock of the accident exceptionally well (although he did ask to "wear a mask like Psycho T because I'm a boy on the go"). 

Never one to miss a sunshine moment, Julianna dished up a positive spin on things -- even as we were in the midst of assessing the damage.

"Well, look on the bright side, Jack," she said. "At least you've added some red to your green and white shirt. That's the way to get into the Christmas spirit!"

Surrounded by bloody carnage, and my daughter offers fashion tips.

On the drive home, I glanced back at a resilient LJ, who was fully engrossed in his Nintendo DS while sporting a small piece of tissue stuffed up each nostril. I reflected on the potential catastrophes the kids had averted earlier in the day before LJ clocked in with the thud heard around the Triad.

While at Grandma's, the kids took full advantage of the snow that had fallen a few days before, using a small inner tube to sled down the tiny hills that line the property.

Although we were able to keep an eye on the kids by watching them through the windows, I must have gone outside a dozen times to issue various warnings.

"Not that hill -- it's too steep."


"Watch out for the ditch."


"Don't sled too close to the house."


"Don't push each other -- it makes you go too fast!"

Based on the Department of Homeland Security's Advisory System, my mommy radar was definitely somewhere between yellow and orange on the terror alert chart.

I held my breath with every trip the kids took down the hills, and I sensed catastrophe at every turn.

I was prepared for any number of disasters involving my children and the inner tube -- a hurricane, a landslide, perhaps even a tsunami. But I never sensed what was as plain as the daylight shining through a perfectly clean plexiglass storm door.

No matter you much you hover, nag, and plead, it just goes to show that, for even the most overprotective parent like me, danger lurks around every corner.

Or in this case, at the end of Grandma's hallway.