I definitely remember being in an altercation or two (or five) with my parent’s Chevy Astro and it’s giant sliding doors which I’m convinced were designed by the devil himself. I remember the terror that engulfed me each time, as those steel doors slammed shut on my tiny fingers. I remember the black and purple blisters that resulted. I remember the uncontrollable bawling. I remember my mom holding me. Rubbing the pain out of them. I remember hating that dang Chevy Astro.
A kid can only take so many finger slams before he starts taking it personally.
How my fingers survived my younger years is a mystery to me. Every kid must have door slam angels that keep the tiny bones from exploding into unfixable pieces when they get shut in the door. According to basic physiology and physics, those fingers shouldn’t be able to make it through such assaults.
And this morning Noah had his first tango with the steel devil (at least under my watch). I was sitting in the front seat already when he got to his door in the back. I looked back and watched him swing the door open. It swung back closed again, and he tried to catch it before it could.
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