Black Saturday

That's how my son defined this day. After all the tears were poured out, the whole world informed on all the swear words his eager brain has accumulated so far (quite a few, I should say), wounded flesh covered in liters of anti-bacterial stuff (first indignantly refused, of course, in a very high-pitched way, – all the neighbours appreciated the volume, no doubt of that), disturbed nerves smoothed with a dozen of cartoons and twice as many chocolates, - he was able to regain his usual critical thinking and conclude that, yes, “bad days do exist, Mum, yes, it's the law of life” (which made me terribly guilty, till today I've had no idea that my “law of life” philosophy has rooted in my child's head so deeply).

He fell off his bike today. Nothing too serious, but some scratches were really bad. I understand perfectly well, it's natural for a five-year-old active gentleman to have such experiences now and then, - it would be abnormal had it been the other way round, - and those “bad days” law again, and that the most important thing is he's avoided grave injuries after all, more or less, - yes, I know, I know.

It's just that... Well, you lead your life in a habitual way, with some minor ups and downs, take care of keeping your child warm and full, spoil him, sometimes get strict, sometimes angry, laugh at silly Sponge Bob together, fight with pillows, quarrel because of Ipad which is one for the two of you, bake sausages in the oven, and do five million other things, big and little, so common for all parent-child units.

You live, basically just trying to be good and make everything around you good too, and then something happens, something unexpected, usually of some nasty nature, and this something seriously shakes your mind up. Makes you realize as clearly as never that one thing matters only – the very fact of your child being here, in your life, at your side. Only one thing is worth living for – loving him. All those numerous roles you have to play daily might all go to hell together with the ones making you play them, when your piece's, your little one's smile is at stake. All that paper-metal-plastic stuff, so often mistakingly believed to be something worth striving for, and all the masks you have to put on in order to get/earn/deserve it, might well once and for all turn into oat porridge, if it's what's needed for your child being safe and sound.

P.S. As for these “nasty happenings”... May be they are just signs God sends us? Signals, prompting us to take a deeper look inside, sieve through all the rubbish our heads are stuffed with, and get our priorities right?