Bucket list item checked!

A terribly exciting thing happened to me at the Romance Writers of America national conference this past week, gang. Terribly exciting!

I saved a child.

I saved a child! Yes! I’m serious and everything!

Revolving Women

Not the doors, but close enough

Picture this. The Marriott Marquis has giant revolving doors. Three or four adults can get in and shuffle around, or you and your giant suitcase that contains 11 pairs of shoes, for example.

There I was on Tuesday, about to depart for a business lunch. I got into the door along with an incredibly beautiful little boy about three or four years old. “Hey, cutie,” I said, as he was indeed adorable. He beamed up at me. True love! The doors started to move.

Then Mr. Cutie began screaming. Screaming, I tell you! His adorable little sneaker-clad foot was stuck under the door. And the stupid doors kept going.

Luckily, I had been preparing for this moment my entire life. I threw my super-strong awesome farm-girl self (see recent blog on the Jaunty Quills about fat-shaming) against the door and pushed with all my might. The door was still trying to revolve, no automatic cut-off, and though I’d stopped any further momentum, the boy’s foot was still caught, and he was screaming like…well, like his foot was being crushed.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” I said, straining with my mighty shoulders and wicked strong legs against the door. I couldn’t stop, or the door would move forward. No hotel staff seemed to be around. Probably twenty or thirty seconds had passed, and Little Cutie still couldn’t pull his foot from the door. His father was on the other side, yelling “Kamir!” or “Come here!” or “Take your sneaker off!” or something. I couldn’t hear, because the automated voice was saying “Step forward. Step forward. Step forward.” Which, of course, we could not.

manish dayal

Am fairly certain that my little friend will be this cute when he grows up.

My eardrums were cringing, so I reached down—still bracing my shoulder against the detestable door, mind you—and grabbed Little Guy and tugged. Tugged once, twice, three times and popped him right out of his shoe and into my arms, so his screams were now right against my left ear. He reared back (stranger danger, you know?), and it was like holding onto a live tuna, and I almost dropped him, but then I shuffled forward and deposited him into his father’s arms.

Mission accomplished.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” the father said and sat down with the little guy. He took off his sock. The foot was bruised, but not broken, and the cutie’s screams dropped to sobs, then to sniffles.

“You were very brave,” I lied to him, patting his knee.

The father kept thanking me, and though I wanted the mayor of New York to give me a medal of valor or something, I had to go to lunch. So I did. But not before I called McIrish AND my mother and said, “Guess what? I saved a kid!”

Or a kid’s foot, maybe. But still. It was awfully nice to be in the right place at the right time.

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