Published: September 24, 2009 10:47 am      

No horsing around!

Now guess what happened. I broke Zoey.

Zoey is our 11-year-old daughter, and apparently I spoke too soon when I said everyone was boycotting providing material for the column.

I didn’t really personally break her, she sort of broke herself, but I feel certain it’s ultimately my fault on a number of levels.

First of all, she fell off of a horse that wasn’t moving. How many people without the last name Carter do you know that can pull something like that off? It has to be a throwback from the time last winter when I was sprinting across the barn lot in the dark, hooked my toe on a rock I’ve known for three years was there, and fell so hard I threw a shoe AND broke a rib.

But back to Zoey.

I’ve been a somewhat over-protective sort from the time we had the first one. They’re getting bigger and, I thought, tougher, so I’ve been working on loosening up a bit. They gotta have some fun, right? Closet extremist that I am, I went from “No, you can’t ride your skateboard on the porch, you’ll roll down the steps and smash your teeth in,” to “Sure, go play with all your horse friends in the parking lot.” Anyone see a problem?

The last things I said to her as she ran to go hang out with her friends at the barrel race were, “Don’t do anything goofy, and don’t be playing around on someone else’s horse.” I forgot that rule about giving positive instruction on what TO do, instead of starting with DON’T, because all they hear is everything AFTER don’t.

She promised she wouldn’t on both counts, and gleefully ran off, shouting ominously over her shoulder that if she did get hurt, she wouldn’t scream. She has a reputation for unwarranted screaming.

Honestly, it didn’t surprise me all that much when my cell phone rang a bit later.

“Mandy, you don’t know me, but my name is Debbie, and I have your daughter at the announcer’s stand,” the unknown voice said. “She’s fallen off a horse and hurt her arm.”

Inhale. Exhale. Run.

I rounded the corner to the announcer’s stand to see Zoey, tear-stained and droopy-lipped, surrounded by six other girls and two moms. They all tried to convince me not to be upset, she was probably fine, and she wasn’t doing anything stupid, accidents just happen.

She’d hurt her wrist. There was no blood and only minimal swelling, maybe it wasn’t bad.

I didn’t say I told her so, I just gave her the look. Yep. You know the one. It says ‘I told you so’ in mime.

Her lip drooped some more. I figured it was pointless to ask what happened, but I did it anyway.

She and her friend were riding double, bareback, on her friend’s horse. Doesn’t that violate at least two of the two things I told her not to do? Anyway, they were getting off — done — and were both all in one piece. They rode the horse back to the stalls, were standing in front of the friend’s horse’s stall, and Zoey, riding in the back, was preparing to dismount. Her friend was unknowingly sitting on the edge of her shorts. While they both discovered it at the same time, only one was prepared for how quickly gravity takes over. Her friend lifted her leg to get off the shorts, and Zoey just slid right off, onto concrete. That’s gonna leave a mark.

So I was reiterating to the witnesses the last things I told her, coupled with the last thing she said. You know, the thing about not screaming if she hurt herself. Before I could finish my sentence, eight voices hollered, “She didn’t scream!” At least we got one right.

After we’d had some Motrin and an ice pack, we had a little talk. This is when I pointed out to her that, as a Carter, if she chooses to do anything dangerous, goofy, or sneaky, she’s either going to get caught, get hurt, or get caught because she got hurt. That’s just how we roll — or splat, as the case may be.

Both my children have had spills off of horses. Oddly enough, most of them have been at a walk or a dead standstill. They can both ride like nobody’s business at a run, but give them a parked horse and it’s all over. She slid off at a walk once before, but it was because she was closely watching her dollar in the ride-a-buck class at the local horse show. She was only five, and her horse was quite round and slippery. We’d put baby oil and conditioner on her horse for the showmanship class. Forgot about the ride-a-buck, where everyone rides bareback and puts a dollar under their knee. Last one still riding with a dollar wins the dollars everyone else dropped. The year before, she’d been the first one out, and she was determined history would not repeat itself. This time, when the dollar went, she went with it. Baby oil will do that to you.

Who knew I could hurdle a six-foot fence?

We went directly to the emergency room after that one, because, Drama Queen or not, you can’t be too careful. I knew we were going to have issues for many more years when the first thing she said after we discovered she was just a little bruised, mostly on her ego, was “Can I wear shorts to school so everyone can see my wrap?”

So this time, I decided to give it some time, since she seemed to be in a minimal amount of pain.

The swelling stayed the same, so to the emergency room we went. X-rays revealed a small fracture. Zoey was elated.

“Do I get a SLING?!” Affirmative. “YES!”

Tomorrow, we’ll get an appointment with the doctor. She’s planning on a blue cast, or perhaps green.

In the meantime, I’m still working to convince myself that if she doesn’t have some of these experiences, she’ll never learn how to make sound decisions on her own. Is it working?

Nope — still cruising on my guilt trip.

Mandy Carter is a staff writer for the News-Capital. Contact her 421-2027.