Lately, I’m all about taking back my life from the irresistible, wild-blue yonder that is social media. From Facebook to Twitter and everything in between, I have GOT to get a grip and re-engage more fully with the lovely people in my “real” life when I’m not working.

So the other day, I herded the girls outside to the swingset for some fresh air before dinner (pointedly leaving my iPhone inside, sad and alone on the ktichen counter). Once I got both girls swinging, my six-year-old begged for an Underdog.

Now. Everyone knows that, for maximum effect and thrill, a true Underdog requires that the pusher, upon delivering a mighty push, must run directly underneath the swinger and emerge victoriously on the other side. If you don’t, you’re just a dirty cheater and it’s not a real Underdog.

Being a fairly coordinated, athletic gal, I wasn’t worried. After all, I’ve performed many a spectacular, shriek-inducing Underdog. I just didn’t know that on this day, the shrieks would come from me.

Yes, I’m afraid I sustained an injury pushing my daughters on the swings. I know, can you even believe it?

If I could just paint you a picture here, you might understand the ridiculous chain of events that led to me falling to the ground, clutching my hamstring and trying not to land in any deer poop. (God knows this would have been priceless video.)

Let me break it down for you:

1. If you have ever attempted an Underdog, you know that timing is critical. I had begun my running push, had Olivia high above my head and was about to duck under when…
2. My hands slipped off her back, causing her to fall directly onto my face as I tripped.
3. The force of her falling snapped my head backward — so my knees buckled, my face and chin got scraped by the seat of the swing, and…
4. I crumpled in a heap of intense pain, embarrassment (OMG, are there any material witnesses?) and, after a bit, hysterical laughter.

It’s a good thing I heal fast. (Although for the record, I was limping the next day.) And it’s even better that I am freakishly good at laughing at myself. If I were someone who truly feared looking stupid, I might not ever set foot in my backyard again. Or interact with the neighbors whose yards face mine.

However, being extremely well-practiced in the area of Looking Foolish (see any of a number of painful 1980s photos of me floating around the internet), I figure I can handle this. It’s probably a good idea to reacquaint myself with the feeling, anyway… I have a hunch that turning 40 this year will bring sandboxes full of indignities my way, whether I’m ready for them or not.

I say, bring ‘em on!

Filed under: Fabulous Guest Bloggers, kids