Birthdays and bicycles

We went to Kieren's 15th birthday party today at my brother and sister-in-law's house, where my brother informed me I needed to update my blog, or he wouldn't read here anymore.

I figure that my readership hovers somewhere around thirteen or fourteen people on any given day, so it would probably be best not to irritate the loyal few (as opposed to those who come here by complete accident, have a quick look around the place, and quickly leave again to head over to MSN games or KraftingWithKarla.com or wherever they intended to go), so here is my post for today.

For his birthday dinner, Kieren chose chili, salad, various assorted chips and lemon cake with vanilla ice cream. He received cards with money from assorted grandparents, aunts and uncles and a cell phone from his parents. He is handsome and adorable and I love him very much, but take care not to mention this (except in birthday cards, where it is not corny to write "We love you!" with mooshy, aunt-like abandon) so that he won't be embarrassed.

Dayden and Kiersi were also very cute, Kiersi in a pink t-shirt that read "I Can Play the Cute Card If I Have To" and Dayden earnestly telling me that he did not want any dumb money for his birthday next month, but preferred to receive gifts.

We spent a very pleasant afternoon with the family (including some of Angie's family, whom we like very much) and drove home praying the rosary together on a golden autumn afternoon.

My husband was driving through a small town between our house and theirs when he whistled and said, "That kid on that bike back there just completely wiped out."

He backed up the van and sure enough, there was a boy who looked to be about thirteen, curled up on his side on the grass verge, crying really hard. His bike was beside him on the sidewalk, chain off, wheels spinning.

"Where are you hurt, bud?" I asked.

He was shaking like a leaf and trying to catch his breath. "My....my shoulder. And my elbow....my knees, too," he said in a trembling voice. I was just about ready to offer him my phone when he pulled one out of his pocket and started dialing. After a moment he said, "Mom? Can you come get me?"

While he talked to his mother, I got the first aid kit out from under the passenger seat, feeling triumphantly vindicated about all the teasing I've taken over the years for keeping a small suitcase stuffed with enough first aid supplies to stock a pharmacy aisle in my van. Under my husband's bemused gaze, I whipped out some anti-bacterial wipes, some triple antibiotic ointment plus lidocain and a box of stick-on bandages in a variety of sizes.

(I also had a couple of those instant cold packs, an ACE elastic, a bottle of Benadryl and a dosage cup, latex gloves, a tweezer, scissors, a roll of sterile gauze and some surgical tape, just in case you were wondering.)

I unwrapped the anti-bacterial wipes and handed them to the boy: he wiped the blood off his skinned knees and inner arm while I prepared the bandages with triple anti-biotic ointment smeared on them. He took the bandages from me and stuck them on, finishing up just as his mom, wild-eyed, pulled up behind our van.

My husband lifted the offending bicycle into the back of her SUV and she hugged her son, thanking us for stopping. He was still very shaky and winced as he stood up, clutching his right shoulder with his left hand and hobbling over to the truck, very obviously trying not to burst into tears.

Waving goodbye, I re-packed my little first aid suitcase, giving it a pleased pat on the lid.

"Gosh, it's a good thing you had that first aid kit," said Aisling respectfully.

"I know," I said smugly. "It's a good thing that kid had a cell phone."

"Mom," said Meelyn patiently, as if explaining something perfectly obvious to someone of dubious intelligence, "it is 2008. All kids have cell phones."

It was as if she was saying, "All kids have noses" or something.

Anyway, I need to go and restock my first aid kit tomorrow. I am very excited about this.