Everything from contest entries and one-shots, to tags. These are in no specific order. Feel free to flip through, read my ramblings, and drop a comment or two!
How many times have you heard parents use this phrase to justify their kids' actions? Countless times. Children can do everything from emptying an entire tube of toothpaste into the sink, to doodling on the walls with colorful markers, to even randomly engaging in a food-fight halfway through a quiet dinner. It's a normal part of life and growing up; these are the memories you look back upon as an adult and have a good laugh about them.
But there was one event in my childhood to which 'kids will be kids' most certainly does not apply. It was a near-death experience, which, when I look back and reflect upon it now, would've been better off not occurring in my life. I mean, I could've functioned the same (or even better perhaps) without it happening. It also would've saved my parents a lot of unnecessary worry and grief.
Once you finish this story, I guess you'll say that I was just being reckless, that I didn't know any better, or even, that I was stupid. But I knew exactly what I was doing, and it almost cost me my life.
Enough chit-chat; let's get on with the story.
-:-
When I was six years old, I used to live on the outskirts of Rome, in what I would define as the countryside. It was a marvelous place for a kid that loved to run around and, ironically, explore. My family and I had just moved back to Italy from the crowded city of New York, so living in the 'wilderness' like that was a great big gulp of fresh air, and very different to the living constraints we were used to. Instead of a lilliputian backyard that consisted of mostly dirt and patches of weeds, now I had a rollercoaster of green and yellow hills at my disposal. I wasn't restricted by an enclosure of wooden fencing any longer—the only thing that stopped me now was the number of hours in the day, which were never enough.
Tragedy tends to occur under bad weather, at least that's what it seems like in the movies. But contrary to popular belief, it was a bright, sunny day when it happened. It was the middle of summer, and the sky was the clearest it had been for some time—no matter where you turned to look, you wouldn't see even the shadow of a cloud. It was perfect.
I can't remember exactly what day it was, but what I do remember is that my mother was at work. So it must've been somewhere in the middle of the week. My father, being a stay-at-home dad, had decided to take us out to the local playground, which was a bit of walk from where we lived, or at least it was for a pair of unruly kids. This so-called playground—which had only a swingset, some monkey bars, and a slide—was located beyond a field, in a completely different neighborhood. The best part of the trip was going down this steep hill (I'm talking about a slope of at least 65 degrees), but not on foot, of course.
By bike.
So I grabbed mine, and my four-year-old brother his tricycle, and off we went. Under the vigilant eye of my pedestrian father—who for the most part kept it on my completely non-self-sufficient sibling—we tottered along. Me, being the badass rebel I was, preferred to speed all the way ahead. I liked to feel the wind blow through my unruly mess of curly hair, my heart slamming against my chest, the adrenaline pumping through my veins. It was exhilarating.
Those losers could bite the dust for all I cared.
However, when I would reach the descent of doom, I would always stop and wait for my dad. I may have been a daredevil, but I wasn't completely crazy; 'Catching those hands' wasn't on the top of my agenda. So I stood at the top of the hill, feeling like I was on top of the world. Foot planted firmly on the ground, hands tightly gripping the purple handlebars, I glared at the challenge before me as hard as six-year-old-me could. It was also because of how intense the sunlight was, but I digress.
The place was completely deserted, apart from the odd car that would drive down the road that cut the hill in half, there wasn't a living soul in sight. It was passed midday—most people were either eating or napping, living the Italian life. I waited and waited...and waited. I sighed in frustration every couple of minutes. My vocabulary had yet to be tainted, so the only thing I could say was, "Why are they so slow?!"
Finally, a million years later, I saw my brother's yellow helmet sprout out of nowhere, along with my dad's shiny bald head. That was my cue to go. I swiveled back towards the descent of doom, and with a touch of the pedals, I darted off. I flew down the hill, the white wheels spinning at the speed of light, my tongue almost hanging out of my mouth for how fast I was going.
This is the part where things went horribly wrong.
Halfway through, I had the bright idea of attempting to put both of my feet up onto the top tube, you know, the part that connects the seat tube to the head tube. If you still have no idea what I'm saying, here's a picture:
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(I won't lie and say that I hadn't done it before on a separate occasion because I did, many times. Just never in this particular situation.) Little did I know, however, that it would be the last time. Suddenly—and to this day, I cannot exactly explain to myself how—I lost control , and before I knew it, I was airborne. I shit you not, I flew for around three whole seconds before making contact with the pavement, face-first. My body tumbled down like a ragdoll for what felt like an eternity before I got to a skidding halt. I was like a plane crash—I just needed the fire and smoke.
Everything after that was a blur because the pain took me a different dimension. I didn't even realize that half of my face got shredded, as did my knee and other parts of my body. When I gained clarity in the hospital a couple of hours later, I was told that if it hadn't been for my helmet, I would've died on impact. So this served as a lesson to me, and all you reckless kids out there—always wear your helmet when you ride your bicycle, scooter, pogo-stick, whatever. It's better to be safe than sorry.
After all these years, there is one thing I can say with one-hundred percent certainty: that was the day I made the worst decision of my life.
A/N:
Yellow! This is my entry for @CharlotteCrouchman's "The Worst Decision of my Life" Contest. It is a true story, and even if it was pretty scary for me at the time, I'm glad that I can look back at it now with a smile on my face. Kids can be really silly sometimes, am I right?
