When I was little, I considered myself to be pretty damn graceful, mostly because I had relatively good reflexes, so I tended to get hurt, like, 10% less than my friends. And because I liked to climb on things, which obviously only graceful people do! Duh!!

No idea where I came up with that one, but I do still like to climb trees.

But I’m definitely not graceful.

Look, maybe there was a point when I knew where my body was in space all the time; I don’t want to call 6 year old me a liar. It’s technically possible that I had all the poise and control of a dancer, with the lightning reflexes of a ninja, and the balance of a tightrope walker. Technically.

Technically, I might also be the lost Russian princess Anastasia, reincarnated in Oakland, never knowing I should be avenging the Romanov line for the wrongs done us 100 years ago.

Hmmm… that was a weird digression, even for me. Sorry; it was the first thing that popped into my mind. Which says a lot about how strange it is in my head.

When I hit puberty I suddenly had bruises everywhere, because woah, all these things were poking out, and my center of gravity shifted, so rock climbing got way more difficult. But even then, I imagined that this was just a temporary setback. Aren’t teenagers supposed to be awkward? That’s, like, the definition of teenagers!

It wasn’t till my mid-20s that I had to admit the truth: I’m a walking disaster scene.

Yes, like my mother before me (thanks for the genes, Mom) I am incapable of making it through the day without getting food, paint, grass, or mystery goo on my clothes. I’ve been pooped on by a flying bird three separate times. I can somehow manage to clear long dining room tables completely with just my butt. I genuinely shouldn’t be allowed near the oven: I haven’t made it more than a week or so without burning myself in as long as I can remember. I trip on invisible obstacles no one else can see, and right now I can’t use my right arm because I pinched a nerve flipping a light switch.

A light switch. 

On the other hand, it means I’ve got a prodigious first aid kit, and know where the aloe is at all times. I will put Neosporin on any and all flesh wounds, have strong opinions about band aid types, and know how you take care of a deep scalp cut. (The skin is too delicate for stitches anyway, so instead of going to the hospital you can just stay home and get a loved one to tie the hair on either side of the cut into tiny, adorable knots.) I am the Queen of Preparedness. Finally, something in parenting that I’m actually ready for! Bring on the boo-boos!

The Kraken has ridiculously good spacial skills, and hasn’t needed so much as a band aid in a year.

God dammit.