Really, I Don't Do Blood

I sit in my recliner and look at the middle child. He is sitting on the couch, Nintendo 3DS in one hand while the other hand holds a bag of ice to his face. Both of his elbows are wrapped in bandages, his jeans cover a knee that is pretty banged up, one eye is steadily turning black, and his chin has that road-rash shade of red. His knuckles are all skinned up; his wrists are bruised. The only thing not messed up is his hair and his attitude. Life can beat him  up, but he can still smile about it. Smile through the pain, that is.

I knew this day would come. You can't put a fifteen-year old daredevil on a longboard with hills all around and not expect some kind of collateral damage. Thank God he didn't break anything. Or get run over while he was down. Or hit his head. The list could go on and on. All I know is that I was in the midst of my own kind of mess at home when the oldest called me. Get some rags ready, Mom. He's tore up bad. I stood at that front door for a solid ten minutes watching for a truck to pull in, wondering what in the world would crawl out. Tore up? That implies a bloody mess to me. I stood there, mentally preparing myself for the moments to come.

He's your boy.
You have to face it.
Take care of him, then throw up later.

I had an old towel ready, three assorted first-aid kits, and a nervous stomach. I just don't deal well with injury-type stuff. I was it, though, so deal with it I knew I would. They pulled in and I took a deep breath. The passenger door opened and out stepped my second born. He looked at me, smiled, and then began the hobble that would bring him up the steps and through the front door. The closer he got the more I realized he wasn't actually dripping blood, he just looked bloody. I met him on the porch and began the mom-assessment of his injuries.

Nothing broken. No gaping wounds. Hair in place. We cleaned him up, bandaged him up, and fed him a couple of Advil. He told the story of his board and the hill and the moment he knew he was in trouble. I could almost see his instincts kicking in as he used his arms to protect his head and manipulated his body into a position that would let him somersault his way to an asphalt landing. He kept telling me not to worry, he was okay. No big deal, Mom. I wanted to clobber him.

That phone call and the ten minutes I stood waiting at the door resulted in an instant headache and a stomach full of knots. Once I saw that he was indeed okay and no emergency room trips would be needed, I thought about what all could have went wrong. We talked about helmets and head injuries and WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?? I wanted to go fast, Mom, and I did. Oh, Sweet Jesus. Thank You for protecting that boy of mine. Thank You for teaching him a lesson in all of this. Thank You that I didn't really clobber him or anyone else who was around.

My nerves are shot.
Just like the brakes on my van.
And this Pro-Bowl game is a joke.

I think it's time to call this weekend done.



And to my dearest middle,


You know I would never clobber you. I would just hug you and squeeze you really tight, but if you're gonna go for speed, son, you gotta wear a helmet. Head injuries mean shaved heads and you've got nicer hair than me. No sense risking that, you know. You are a treasure.


Love,
Mom