The deafening crack of thunder shook the gymnastics floor and rattled me on the bleachers. I prayed that the torrential mid-summer downpour would slow down before we made a run for the car after my daughter’s tumbling lesson. I could feel a thin line of sweat making its way down my back when another huge boom muffled a scream. My daughter was on the ground clutching her dislocated knee as coaches ran towards her. The rest is a blur of rain, orthopedists, and crutches. She was sentenced to time on the couch with a regimen of anti-inflammatories and ice packs.
I tried not to panic about our family vacation, which was less than two weeks away featuring long walking tours, and attempted to hide my anxiety over the puffy black and blue knee. Twenty minutes on, 20 minutes off. I couldn’t breathe.
“Mom, you’re not helping. I can feel your anxiety,” my daughter said.
What else is new?
I would’ve done anything to take away her pain, and clearly, she sensed my weakness, talking me into watching just one or two episodes of “Gilmore Girls.” Ten days and seven seasons later, I learned to appreciate the appeal of binge watching in general, and specifically, the ins and outs of the complex and heart-warming Lorelei and Rory relationship.