Ponyfoot

My children and I have not always had good experiences at fairs and carnivals. Actually, we have never had a good experience. Other women might let this keep them away, but I should tell you, I am not “other women”. You have probably figured this out by now. That is all I have for a defense of why, when our annual community fair rolled around again, I thought it would be a good idea to go. Well, perhaps I considered it a challenge to be met, a sort of mountain to climb.

The fact that the last time we tried to have fun at this fair our adventure ended with an emergency trip to the ophthalmologist did not deter me. This was our year. We were all older, some of us were wiser and we could do this – so many people did – you know, be together, have fun, enjoy the festivities. I knew we needed a plan and decided to get there first thing, do all the rides and then meander between the crafts and the petting zoo, eating when we were hungry or tantalized by treats.

And it worked. We got there early and went straight to the “rides”. There was still the bouncing cage, the slide, the whale and the Velcro run. There was also a rock-climbing wall, some small carousal type rides for the little kids and – excitement of all excitements – pony rides.

My sister, Torey and her three-year-old daughter, Ren, accompanied us. This time Rennie was the balker. She would wait patiently in line and once even entered the whale’s mouth only to immediately regurgitate herself out in terror, “I don’ wanna do it!” Her little voice quavered. Torey, being a wiser mother than I had been at that point in my career, realized that the craft tent was more their speed and we agreed to meet later. Everything was close enough that the big kids could stand in one line while I stood for them in another. This way they were able to go on everything they wanted and some things twice.

After we had exhausted our inflated plastic options we found Torey and Ren, headed over to the pony area and confirmed that the rides would start at 11:00. It was then 10:40. Torey was against waiting for it to open as we were the only ones there. She was for getting something to eat and coming back when the rides started. I knew this was crazy talk. If we left and came back we would have to wait an additional twenty minutes, at least, for a turn. I put my foot down and Torey yielded to my greater wisdom. Besides, there was a cage full of kittens just outside the ring that the children were happily petting. Sure enough only a couple of minutes passed and families began to line up. By 11:00 the line snaked far into the park.

We were the first to be invited in. Christopher and Lydia were directed to the ring of horses while Torey and I placed Ren and Eden on the ponies of their choice. Eden’s, a dark brown pony, was named Spike. She had asked one of the employees, a teenage girl, who was standing next to us holding onto Spike’s harness. Soon the woman in
charge yelled for them to start and all horses and ponies started plodding in a circle. Walking with Eden, I made all the typical comments a mom makes to a small child who is doing something exciting – “Wow! Look at you riding! What a big girl!” – you know the drill.

We were moving slowly, but we were under the trees and it felt good to be in the shade and look at different views of the sunny park.
Near the ponies, area businesses had set up tents. The one closest belonged to Big Dog Tai Kwon Do School and I decided to check it out as soon as we were done with our ride. We swung around and I was looking across the road at Paul’s office building. He had hoped to come but had sprained his ankle playing basketball that morning. He called me soon before we left for the carnival and told me what had happened, that he was fine, but was sitting with his ankle elevated and iced per the care of the corporate nurse. “I’m afraid I won’t be able meet you over there today.”

“I didn’t know you were planning to go.”

“I was. I’m sorry I can’t, but I hope you and the kids have a good time.”

We were and I was so grateful. Everything had gone perfectly. The kids were all happy. The rides, as soon as this one was over, were completed. All that was left was meandering around the craft area and maybe getting a little something to eat. We had done it! We had come to something intended to be fun for the whole family and the whole family had actually had fun. I was amazed and happy and grateful and relaxed…and then the pony stepped on my foot.

I know, I know, it’s not often you get to say that, but I do and did so many times that day: to Torey, to the bewildered women at the Tai Kwon Do tent where I wandered in shock, to the kind ladies at the information booth, to the young man who drove me in a golf cart over to the fire trucks, to the firefighters themselves as one of them iced and bandaged it, to my friend from church who happened by and offered the use of her phone, to Paul who I called to ask for my doctor’s number which I could not remember, to the nurse at the doctor’s office, to the doctor who used to attend my church who my friend ran into and dragged over to check me, to Ronald McDonald as he terrified Ren and Eden while we waited for Torey to get the van, to the woman who checked me into the E.R. later that day, to the nurse and the doctor and the X-ray tech in the E.R and then to anyone who happened to notice the colors and size of my foot in the following week.

Initially I didn’t say anything at all. I just crumpled against the pony and groaned loudly. My immediate concerns were choking back an expletive, staying calm, and avoiding the attraction of any attention.

I can’t tell you how much it hurt. I know “pony” sounds so cute and harmless. This is where being pedantic gets one into trouble. A short fat horse stepped on me, technically a pony, but please do not think it was small or light or incapable of inflicting excruciating pain. It was and it did, although I don’t hold him responsible. Nor do I hold responsible the teenage girl who suddenly shouted, “Whoa!” right in his ear, startling him and Eden and me. I was immediately startled again as Spike tried to stop, tripped, stomped on my foot, ground into it to regain his balance and then stepped off lightly.

After I managed to pull Eden off I staggered across the ring to where Torey was already waiting with the rest of the kids. “The pony stepped on my foot.” I whispered hoarsely.

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Do you need to go to First Aid?”

I was bent over, one hand on my waist, the other on my forehead. “I’m fine.” I said.

Torey looked at me quizzically.

This is where things get a little fuzzy. Now I know that I was in shock and trying to find some way of coping with the terrible pain other than throwing myself on the ground and screaming hysterically. When I am hurt my impulse is to walk, as if I keep moving I can get away from it.

“I want to check out the Tai Kwon Do tent,” I said and, without a backwards glance at my three children, began to hobble to it.

Torey watched me stagger away, still bent over, head nodding, one hand up by my face the other down by my waist both alternately pointing and then batting at some invisible assailant. I reminded her of the slightly unbalanced woman in town who likes to stand on corners and preach to passing cars, but that didn’t fully capture it.

“It’s hard to describe. The hunching and staggering cannot be highlighted enough. You sort of looked like a pecking chicken, a umpire calling a play and a decrepit old woman all rolled into one but that’s not quite it…you just had so much going on.”

We’ll never know exactly what I resembled as the scattering of our children: Christopher back to the kittens, Lydia towards the craft tent and Eden and Ren to the four lane road with a view to getting hit by a car, distracted her from making a perfect study. I was on my own.

When I finally made it to the Big Dog Tai Kwan Do booth, the two women running it jumped to attention handing me brochures and offering to answer any questions. I stood dumbly. I was trying to read the brochures and unable to focus, just stared at them trying to figure out what had propelled me there. Since I have ADD and three children I often find myself staring blankly trying to remember why I am wherever I am, so that wasn’t a new feeling, but I was realizing that the throbbing pain in my foot, the constriction in my throat and my inability to remember my name might indicate the need to postpone exploring my martial arts’ options. The women were still smiling expectantly. An explanation seemed necessary.

“I’m sorry,” I croaked, “a pony just stepped on my foot.”

They both gasped and made shocked murmurs. “Do you need anything?” One asked.

I shook my head.

A woman with a baby in the stroller, also visiting the booth, offered me some Advil. I was poised to refuse and then thought better, “That would be great. Thank you.”

She whipped the bottle out and handed me a couple tablets. I took them and stood blinking. She reached down under the stroller and grabbed a bottle of water. “Take this too.”

I knew that all the refreshments were on the other side of the grassy park, which meant that she had gotten this water for herself and then pushed that stroller across the park in the hot sun. I knew how hard it is to push a stroller across grassy and uneven surfaces. For her to give me, a complete stranger, this water that would cost her at least one more trek across the park seemed such a sacrifice. Her kindness undid me. I was on the verge of tears. Good thing I didn’t know it also cost her a dollar. In the past bottles of water had been given out free. Had I known I am sure I would have refused to take it and started sobbing hysterically.

Torey, who had gathered all the children, came up as I was thanking my benefactress. I swallowed the Advil as we walked away from the tent. “She gave me Advil AND a BOTTLE of WATER!” I croaked, my
voice breaking. “Wasn’t that KIND?”

Torey stopped and touched my elbow, “Are you OK?”

I looked at her, amazed, “I got stepped on by a POOOOOOONY!” This ended in a high-pitched squeal that only dogs could hear.

“I know! But you were heading off to the Big Dog, leaving me to chase the kids…” she paused. This was the moment she realized she was dealing with a lunatic. She scanned the park. “You need to go to First Aid. I bet it’s at the Information tent. I’ll take the kids to the Petting Zoo. You meet us there when you’re finished.”

And so I did. Later that day reclining on a bed in the E.R., Paul’s bum foot propped on the bed next to mine I quietly told him about my adventures at the carnival.

“I think I acted like such a nut because all my energy was going into holding back tears. Which doesn’t make sense since you know what an emotional girl I am.” He did know; I rarely resist crying. To me, it’s just a part of life, a sort of emotional sneeze. My philosophy for crying and sneezing in public is the same: try to be discreet and grab a tissue. There’s no need to be embarrassed or ashamed. Thinking about it, I could see that any time I was hurt physically I would resist any response, trying to ignore the pain and keep it cool. Why?
And then I saw myself as a child, in pain and crying, and heard my father’s angry voice, “OK, Alison tuck it in.”

Tuck it in. All we kids were told that any time we got hurt enough to cry. And we would, because no pain was bigger than our dad’s authority. We have talked about how that shaped us. As adults we can see the validity in trying to calm a child when helping him and yet we all got the message that our tearful response to our pain and fears was invalid.

Because I am such an emotional woman I thought I had eluded “Tuck it in.” but it was clearly still driving me. I, who will calmly wipe away tears prompted by a sad thought would have rather died than cry when I got stepped on by a stinking pony. In the shock of the pain I thought if I just kept moving, played it cool and pretended I was OK, I would be.

It isn’t just me. Sitting in the E.R., separated from the other patients by only curtains, every conversation was clearly heard. Person after person, before they would accept care, needed to explain to the doctor exactly how long they had held out, some for days, before coming in, and then, only at the insistence of a family member. Why are so many of us are afraid to ask for help, to show our weakness, to acknowledge our woundedness?

The doctor came back with the news that no bones had been broken and I was released with instructions to take care. We hadn’t been home five minutes before one of the children walked up to me and bumped my foot. I bit back a scream.

“Was that your hurt foot? I’m sorry, Mama!”

Days passed and it continued to be brushed against, jostled and stepped on. After a week Torey gave me a Pilates lesson and grabbed it to adjust my posture.

“Ponyfoot!” I shrieked and a nickname was born.

It’s been months now, the bruises are all gone and it rarely hurts, but every once in a while I will feel a shot of pain. My first thought is always thankfulness that I asked for help, that I went to the hospital and I allowed myself to be taken care of, because I know everything is OK. The pain is simply a reminder of the wound, and its infrequency a sign of healing.