Wildflower Writes

My son inherited his mother's perfectionistic tendencies.  When he is unable to accomplish something, he gets frustrated easily and concludes he is horrible at the task and will never be able to do it.  He gets angry and cries. Today we tackled the bike again.  Before the snow fell last fall, he was able to go short distances as long as I got him started.  That's how it began this afternoon. By the time we got to the next-door neighbor's driveway, he had already fallen once.  By the time we got around the corner, I threatened to take him home if he was going to cry every time the bike went off the sidewalk and into the grass.  Little by little, with encouragement, and letting him pick himself up and start over a hundred times, he started to get the hang of it.  After cruising around the basketball court at the elementary school for awhile, he was completely confident in his ability to start, stop, and steer in the direction he wanted to go. ...

Finished with my business at the hospital, I pushed open the massive door with the pretty green EXIT sign above it. I started heading down the three floors I had until I reached ground level. On the third step or so, my heel wobbled and I had to grab the handrail to steady myself. My imagination ran away with me. What if I had fallen? What if I had tumbled head over heels until I landed against the door of the third floor? How long would it take until someone came down that particular staircase? How long would I lay in a pool of my own blood, slowly dying? Or if I were able to make it out into the hallway, crawling on my hands and knees, dizzy from the concussion and dragging my broken leg behind me, would someone help me? With all the nurses and other hospital staff roaming the halls, would anyone stop? Or would they be too busy? Would they think I was being strange and call security? Would they stuff me in an elevator and send me to the ER? Or maybe just kick me down the...