Suck it Up!

We all know parents that do the dreaded Gasp of Sympathy every time a kid falls down. Whether they see their kid hit their head on a table, trip on a curb, fall off a bike, slip on a patch of ice or tumble into a vat of glass shards, some parents have no self-control. Before the kid has even hit the pavement the mom's eyes quadruple in size and she has inhaled so deeply that it always surprises me when I discover that there's any oxygen left for the rest of us.

While I try desperately not to fall into this category, I was guilty of it one time when Zach was in second grade. After his scooter hit a crumbling piece of sidewalk, he went flying off the thing and he used his left elbow to break his fall. I didn't gasp when he fell, but as soon as I saw his misshapen elbow I made a sucking noise that was the equivalent of me saying OH MY HOLY HELL YOUR ARM IS GROTESQUE THEY'RE PROBABLY GOING TO HAVE TO AMPUTATE. This of course threw him into a little bit of a panic, but thanks to Doug giving me a look that felt like a smack in the face, my composure quickly returned and I was able to think logically. Turns out that while his arm was in fact broken, it wasn't broken very badly and his elbow wasn't even misshapen. Apparently when someone has really skinny arms, it looks like that all the time.

Ever since that episode of unwarranted fear and panic, my kids know that it takes quite a bit of pain and discomfort to push my sympathy button. After all, they're old enough to get an ice pack out of the freezer and they all know where the Band-Aids are kept. If the injury is really severe and there are tears involved I may even get the Band-Aid for them, offer up a dose of Advil and even say something really consoling like gee, I'll bet that hurts a little bit, good thing you'll recover.

While I was at Zoe's tennis lesson a couple days ago, I discovered that she has acquired my suck-it-up mentality. When the kid that she does lessons with fell down and started to cry, she just stood there and looked at him with a bewildered expression. Don't get me wrong, Zoe cries about something almost every day, but it's usually about:

1. Losing
2. Not getting her way
3. Starving, even though she just "ate" lunch
4. Losing
5. Something that Charlie did wrong or didn't do right

Instead of crying when she gets hurt, she usually displays anger and rage (often accompanied by embarrassment) to a degree that you wouldn't think a 34-pound girl was capable of achieving. So when this kid grabbed his knee and wailed, her first reaction was to put her hands in the air and then say "Oh come on. It's not that bad. I don't even see any blood, it's just a white scrapey thing. You'll be fine."

I just stood there beaming with pride while his mom leapt to her feet and consoled him. Zoe looked at me with a what-a-wuss look, shrugged her shoulders and then went back onto the tennis court and took advantage of some one-on-one time with her coach.

Later, after I had donated a Band-Aid from Zoe's tennis bag and the kid's tears had been dried, he went back onto the court but was obviously distracted by the presence of the Band-Aid. Zoe seemed happy to have her friend back, until he missed a shot.

"You missed! Stop picking at your ow and pay attention!" she barked before hitting a backhand.

I was amazed and overwhelmed and somehow managed to resist the urge to run onto the court to give her a hug. How in the hell did my thoughts come out of her mouth? And she even managed to use the perfect tone of voice. What a girl.

Sympathy? I Think I've Heard of That

When Zach came down the stairs for breakfast the other morning, he was taking the steps one at a time because his ankle was feeling a little stiff after playing tennis all weekend. In addition to the ankle injury, he also said: "I hope I'm not getting sick because I feel cold and my throat hurts a little bit when I swallow." And then just in case I didn't hear him he demonstrated his throat discomfort by wincing in pain as he swallowed.

Since I'm not exactly known for dishing out overwhelming amounts of sympathy, I decided to surprise him with a big dose of compassion by handing him an Advil while telling him that if he really started feeling crappy half-way through the school day that he could call me. And who knows, I might even scrape myself off of the couch and go pick him up.

He responded to this by grunting at me and then limped for the bus. Right after he left Charlie came down the stairs, taking the steps one at a time because his knee was feeling a little stiff after playing tennis all weekend. I asked him if he was going to survive or if we were going to have to amputate and he informed me that it wasn't just his knee, but that his whole body was sore. I guess playing four 2-hour tennis matches in one weekend will whip a boy into shape after all. I said hmmmm that's neat, handed him an Advil and gave him his bagel.

By the time both boys were home from school at the end of the day, I noticed that all traces of limping had disappeared. Miraculous joint healing had occurred without the assistance of ice packs, Ace wraps or orthopedic intervention. But I was still a little concerned about Zach's "illness."

Around 9:00, I suggested to him that he should maybe go to bed since he was fighting a sore throat and, as expected, mentioning something so absurd as going to bed early brought on an instant recovery and a crabby kid. "I'm not sick and I don't have a sore throat! What are you talking about? I never said anything about my throat! I said my ankle hurt."

Usually I'm pretty good about translating his teenage rants and less-than-desirable tone of voice into something that doesn't make me want to smack him, but on that particular night I wasn't really in the mood to be treated like shit on a shoe. After pointing out the fact that yes, he did in fact tell me that morning that he had a sore throat, because why else would I ask him how he's feeling. And hey by the way I am not a complete moron that just makes things up. And I'm pretty sure that this is the last time ever that I attempt to be sympathetic and concerned. And listen jerk, stop talking to me like that because I AM YOUR MOM!

After he realized that he was out of line and apologized I suggested that in the future, before he says something to me, he should consider saying whatever it is he's about to say to himself first, in his head. Because the problem is that since he doesn't even realize when he sounds like a creep, he doesn't believe me when I accuse him of snapping at me.

If this doesn't work and he continues to sound like an asshole when he talks to me, maybe I'll just do to him what I do to Zoe when she throws a tantrum: I'll video tape him so he can see and hear it for himself, and then I'll put him on the naughty step. Or maybe I'll just give him an Advil.

They're Not Tougher Than They Look

I recently read an article about the thousands of children, some as young as three-years-old, that were taken from their families in post-World War II England and sent to work as farm laborers in Australia. My first thought was, "What a horrible story. Those poor families!" My next thought was, "Holy shit. My kids wouldn't survive two minutes if they had to work as farm laborers."

One Fall, after they raked some leaves (from our one tree), I endured days of hearing: "My shoulder hurts. Why does my shoulder hurt so much when I move it like this? Did you see this weird bump on my hand? What is that from? Man, my shoulder still hurts. And I think all that raking gave me a headache."

They even tell me about the nuisance injuries like paper cuts, hangnails, or a bruise on the shin. Usually, if they show me an especially fresh wound, I'll put a little salt on my finger and say, "Where? Right here?" while firmly smashing my finger onto the cut. You'd think that would discourage them from ever telling me about anything smaller than a compound fracture, but I've had no such luck.

Maybe I'm being a little hard on them. In the past, the boys have played several tennis matches while enduring sore feet, fatigue, and stiff legs. I've sent them to school with scratchy throats and dry coughs, only to have them return at the end of the day miraculously healed. All three of them have dealt with their share of scraped knees and elbows without having to take a trip to the Skin Graft Store. So, despite appearances, maybe they really are tougher than they look.

While I was standing in the kitchen hunched over the child labor article, Charlie came walking in with a pained expression. I waited for the woe filled tale detailing his injury.

"Man, as much as I like Pixie Stix, eating them is such a pain because the end of the paper straw gets all wet with spit and you end up wasting over half of the sugar!" He could barely get the words out.

I just stared at him, thinking that if Australia still needs some kids to be laborers on their farms in 2010, they probably don't want to be swiping them from my suburb.