Sympathy

Fine, I'll admit it--sometimes when my son is hurt, I run out of sympathy too quickly.

I'm not proud of this, I just never know exactly how sympathetic I'm supposed to be. My first reaction is always to immediately rush in and help my boy, but I've watched Mark smack his head on a giant planter when he was little, and immediately push me away. Conversely, I've seen a (removed) splinter require days of attention, bandages and antibiotic cream.

At least once a week, Mark appears with some appendage wrapped in gauze from the school nurse's office. He regales me with tales of how he fell in P.E., basketball or, sometimes, just walking. (He really is my kid.)

But I knew things were bad yesterday when I walked in the door. Crutches were propped against the wall, and as soon as I made eye contact, Mark burst into tears.

"I hurt my foot," he sobbed, rubbing his shoe. "I was running in football, and I tripped."

I sat beside him, and touched it gingerly. "Does it hurt here?" I asked. "Or here?"

He nodded both times.

I wasn't sure what to do. He had a drum lesson in 15 minutes, which was already a re-schedule. I couldn't cancel it now, at the last minute, but I didn't want Mark drumming with an injured foot.

"Get your bag," I said. "We have to go to drums, but if it hurts too much, don't use your foot. Just work on your snare."

Mark nodded, wiping the tears away. Then he stood, and with the most affected limp I've even seen, he dragged his seemingly dead foot to the door.

When we got to the lesson, he forgot he was injured and stepped out of the car. He quickly remembered, and resumed his limp, which actually took more effort than real walking did.

My gut said Mark was fine, but he was putting so much work into garnering sympathy that I gave it to him. I sat him on the couch when we got home, elevating his foot on a pillow. I gave him ice and Advil, and promised to take him to the doctor if it still hurt in the morning.

I put away the crutches while he slept, but he didn't seem to notice when he woke up. He limped awkwardly to breakfast, and I knew he was about to lay it on thick. I couldn't tell what he was angling for exactly--was he really working for a whole day off from school because of this?

"Your foot still hurts?" I asked.

He nodded, rubbing his sock.

"Let's put ice on it," I said, but he shook his head. "More ibuprofen, too, to keep the swelling down."

"It's not swollen," he snapped. "And no ice. It didn't help last night."

"You have to ice it more than once," I said. "And take more than one ibuprofen. It doesn't get better after one pill and one ice pack!"

But he refused. "No," he said bluntly. "It didn't work. I won't do it again."

I wasn't sure what brought about the snottiness, other than that it was morning, and he's not a morning person. I bit my tongue, refusing to be baited into an argument.

"So..." he said, after a few silent moments. "Are you gonna take me to the doctor?"

"The doctor's gonna tell you to ice it and take Advil," I told him.

He didn't like that one bit.

"So you're not gonna take me the doctor?" he spewed. "Only you get to go to the doctor when you're sick?"

I didn't like that tone at all, so I called his bluff.

"You're right," I said. "You should see the doctor. You need a flu shot anyway. Call me at lunch, and if it still hurts, we'll go to the doctor this afternoon."

That shut him up. The only thing worse than no sympathy is a shot. Mark wasn't going for that.

When I dropped him off at school, I reminded him to call at lunch. Curiously, my phone did not ring during his entire lunch break.

It did ring 15 minutes afterward, though. It was the school nurse, and for a brief minute, I felt like the world's worst mom. I instantly knew she was calling to say his foot was broken!

"Don't worry," she started out. "Mark's fine, but his head is a little banged up."

"I know--" I started, then stopped. "Did you say his head?"

"His head," she repeated. "He was playing football at lunch, and collided with a buddy. They crashed into each other, but he's already gone, so I think he's fine."

She stopped talking when she realized I was laughing.

"I'm sorry," I explained. "He hurt his foot yesterday, and I felt guilty for not taking him to the doctor. But he must be fine after all, if he was running all over the football field."

"Yeah, his foot is fine," she said. "I just wanted to give you a heads up about his head."

Then we both giggled at her pun. I thanked her for calling, and hung up, preparing myself. I needed to practice some sympathy, because I'll need a bucketload when I get home tonight and Mark shows off his latest injury.

I just hope today's injury is similar to yesterday's--and that all Mark really hurt was his pride. Because I'm gonna treat it the same as I treated his foot--with ice, Advil and as much sympathy as he'll allow or I can muster.