Scott, for whatever reason, taught the kids in the neighborhood how to ride the garage door. Follow me, now, as I walk you through it. When the garage door is opening, you grab onto the bottom and ride until it starts rolling back and then you drop off. So fun, right? Yeah.
This was entertaining for awhile and most of the kids had a good ride and lost interest. I decided this form of activity had indeed had a good run, but I was finished with standing out there watching them go up and down. No more riding the garage door was now an edict I decreed.
One afternoon, several days later, I heard the garage door opening. Those kids, I thought, and I spinted to the door to administer some mom style discipline. This is what I observed.
The garage door was rising and not one child was hanging on it. They were all watching Addison.
She was standing on the bottom of the door, clinging to the joint, and riding it up. It started turning inward taking her with it. As it turned, she turned with it until she started slipping from the a ceiling . . . like a cat would do.
I saw it happening and raced towards her in an attempt to catch her as she fell towards the cement. I made it and caught her around the waist avoiding any broken bones. However, I didn't stop her face from kissing the pavement. Through blood, although minimum, and sobs I assessed the situation. She looked like Carl Mauldin. We ran in and put ice on her nose and she didn't want to play the rest of the day. Embarrassed. All the kids had witnessed this event.
The next morning, she walked in our room. Two black eyes and a bruised nose. No swelling, not broken.
No kid ever rode our garage door again.
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