When I was 9 or 10, I amused myself by finding rocks. We had some fabulously massive granite ones in the front yard, underneath the mulberry tree that, in ten years time, would be mortally damaged by a drunk driver who crashed into it.

Obviously small, smooth rocks are the ideal rocks for carrying in one’s pockets. The granite rocks were more a tourist destination, a pile I would visit every so often to rub my hands over, relishing the divots.

I grew curious about how I could break down these rocks, and carry them around with me. I wasn’t strong enough to break them with my hands (silly! only an adult could do that, and I couldn’t enlist their help as a last resort). There wasn’t a tool I could use, and erosion would take far too long.

There was someone I could enlist, though. Someone much stronger than I: gravity.

I carried all the rocks up to the sidewalk. One by one, I dropped them, leaping out of the way from the rebound. It wasn’t working, but I still had one more test subject, the largest of the rocks.

I dropped it, and I didn’t dodge in time. It bounced and smacked, sharp edge first, into my left ankle. A jagged cut blossomed open, and the skin around it welted. In the end, after several swollen weeks, I would be left with a puffy scar that still exists today.

This was a pickle. I was certain I shouldn’t be dropping rocks, even for the admirable endeavor of creating pockets full of rocks. I decided on a simple lie, which I told my mom: I had tripped on a bit of raised sidewalk by our house and cut myself.

“Are your sure,” she responded mockingly.

“Yes,” I squeaked out.

“You’re sure you didn’t actually cut yourself when you were dropping those rocks?”

I was caught in an obvious lie. “I think I need to go to the doctor,” I responded. I don’t know, actually, if I needed to go. It hurt and the cut was a quarter inch thick.

“You should’ve thought of that first,” my mom responded, and walked off. This was a common response from her whenever I asked for help with something.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I asked both my parents what is one thing they promised they would never do when they had kids, something they stuck with. My dad said he would never hit us in the face or call us stupid (he never did either); my mom said she would never say “I told you so.” I think she should be DQed on account of the fact “you should’ve thought of that first” is functionally the same.

I have a trinket dish full of stones, now, none of them granite.