Big Foot made it through

I'm safe for another round. Safe enough to bare my writing soul to the world. The next challenge is to write a personal essay about why I write in 300 words. This will be challenging for four reasons.

1. There are a lot of reasons why I write. So I will have to be concise.

2. I have no tragic story about being abused or neglected or even parents who divorced. They are still happily married.

2. Although I haven't had a tragic life, this will be deeply personal.
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3. Since this is deeply personal, being eliminated would be sad, like a personal rejection.
I will still use a pen name, but since this is a personal essay, I'm hoping my mom at least recognizes my entry and votes for me.
Here's last week's entry. This incident is based on what happened to my 13 year-old son last Monday when we went ice skating. His remark when I wrote the scene: "Well at least something good came out of it." Yes, the scene and the fact that he'll have a cool scar where as his sisters pointed out, when he does grow facial hair it won't grow in that spot.
Big Foot
I whiz around the ice rink, stuffing the gloves that Mom made me bring into my pocket. “Move those big feet,” Caleb, my younger brother, shouts as he races past.
My feet have grown two sizes in two months. I had to get the biggest skates you can rent.
“High five,” Caleb calls. We bump knuckles and then …
Wham.
My chin meets the ice.
I nod at Caleb to keep going and get up to find a bench. Ice isn’t exactly cushiony.
Mom skates up to me. “Andrew, what happened?”
“Fell on the ice.”
“Your feet get in the way?”
“Not even. It was Caleb.” I lift my chin. Mom’s face turns white.
“Where’s your glove?”
I pull it out. She makes me hold it on my chin. I don’t tell her I’d been wiping my nose with it.
“We gotta go,” she says.
“I just need a band aid.”
“We’re going.”
“That needs stitches,” Mom says as we leave.
I shiver. By the time we get to the hospital, my hand shakes so bad I can’t keep the glove in place.
Caleb stays out front staring at a Disney show.
The nurse makes me get on a scale and takes my temperature, although that’s clearly not why we’re here.
She leads us to the trauma room.
I’ve never had stitches before. Never been hospitalized. Never broken a bone. Now I’m in the trauma room.
“Growing boy.” The nurse taps my shoe as I lie on the table.
Mom squeezes my arm. “Want me to hold your hand?”
I shake my head.
The doctor pulls open a drawer, rattles around, says something about a 30 gauge needle. Like a shotgun?
I stare at the ceiling.
I won’t cry.
“You’ll be fine,” the doctor speaks in that high voice used for littler kids than me. “A shot, a few tugs, and all better.”
A tear leaks out. Warm blood runs down my neck.
The doctor pokes a needle near the cut. Now I wish Mom would hold my hand. She doesn’t.
After the burn of the 30 gauge and more than a few tugs, I’ve got four stitches poking out of my chin like an off-center goatee.
“See, that didn’t hurt,” the nurse says as she cleans me off.
“Except for you poking me,” I say.
When I come out, Caleb raises his knuckles. “High five.”
“Not even,” I say.