Skinned knee.

It happened so fast.

I'm bored. It's nice. Let's go for a walk. She's hot. Too hot. Pants are hotter. I'll find shorts. Shorts on. Socks too hot. Put on newer shoes that she's not as used to than her sneakers (idiot). Let's go. And she's running and she's running and she's running and she's running and she's running and she's down. She cries and she shakes her leg, she shakes it and shakes it and there's blood. She's screaming and we're rushing back inside and she's screaming and screaming. Tears. Blood. Tears. Peroxide. More tears. Sippy. Ball. Backyard. Smiles and laughter.

And it was over.

But every time I look at her scabby, raw right knee, it happens all over again.

I feel like the worst mommy ever, like anyone else would have seen it coming a mile away. I feel like I can hear the voices of our neighbors watching from their windows, "Look at those assholes, that kid's going to skin her..."

Sigh.