One Day Into the Week and I Already Almost Killed My Brother. Twice.

I ride my bike almost everyday.  When I'm overwhelmed with school, or the noise level in my house, or my nasty little friends, I go outside and glide around, all by myself.  I don't ride miles or anything, and I probably don't burn many calories, but I have fun.  Yesterday, I thought I would invite my little brother into my happy little world.  Not really, he asked if he could race me.  I'm not very competitive, but, strangely, I said yes.  

He rode off before me, and, strangely again, I cheated back by going across the grass.  This put me ahead of him a good two inches.  As we pedaled furiously to the finish line, I faintly heard my mom's voice through the window, shouting at me to stop.  At the speed we were going, immediate obedience could have very well landed me in a tree.  

I did think I was going to fall, though.  But as I turned around to sing victory, what do I see but my agile, poised little brother tumbling- by tumbling, I really mean, flipping, crashing, flying- out of his bike, onto the pavement.  (You know, it was really weird that at first he seemed to get tangled up in his bike, which seemed to keep going on its own accord, before being dumped on the ground.)  He even rolled around a few times for good measure.

Two seconds on the grass and he started gasping.  Then he screamed.  He got up and for a brief second, I thought maybe I wouldn't have to carry him.  No luck though.  He lifted his arms like a two year old and started sobbing.

I can't blame him.  After I lifted him up and started the trek home, I noticed the gash on his knee. I'm not that squeamish when it comes to blood.  But, oh my gosh, this was ugly.  It reminded me of this time in first grade, when this kid scraped his knee so badly you could see the bone.  I almost threw up both times.

"Is it really bad?" asked the poor child.

"No!" I shouted, "It's not bad at all!"

The whole way home, I kept up my act, shouting (I don't know why I was shouting.  Maybe I was trying to drown out the voice in my head that was telling me to drop the boy and run.) that he would be fine, and that it was only a cut.

He's lucky he didn't have to get stitches.  At least he has one sick battle scar.  

The second way I almost killed him was that I was about to give him some Advil for the pain when my mom asked me if I was mentally impaired.  Turns out, you can't give a 9 year old an adult dose, or they might, you know, die.  I guess I have lost touch with my childhood.

I really hate Mondays.