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My kid landed on me, forehead to forehead, while falling on me from a nice high climb. He, thank goodness, is totally fine. I, however, get to do another Thanksgiving with a concussion. No black eye this time — last year, when C was three years old, he threw a rubber mallet at my head and gave me a shiner that lasted nearly until Christmas. The 2014 new improved concussion features whiplash and, if my doctors’ predictions are right, an even longer recovery time.

Just when I’m applying for an alumnae grant from my alma mater that would make self-publishing the Big Book way easier and faster, I’m supposed to limit screen use, writing-related activities, and thinking in pictures. But but but I owe a book review, and that grant application deadline isn’t going to meet itself, and…

And now my head hurts.

It’s tempting to go into Thanksgiving grumpy, but here’s the thing: I’m profoundly grateful that, if somebody had to take the damage in our little Newtonian physics experiment, it’s me and not my son. As tired as I am of having spent the past four days mostly in a dark room trying to discipline myself not to think, I know my four-year-old could not have marshaled the self-restraint to spend four quiet days in the dark, nor tolerated that restraint imposed by anyone else. I get to peer out of the room, blinking like a mole at the world where I get to spend a few more hours a day, living a larger fraction of my life, and there are my boys, running and laughing like they always do.
Source: Dr Pretentious

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