It was the last day of the 2020-2021 school year. A day teachers across America waited what seemed like an eternity to get to. And like all of my colleagues, I was ready. To party.
The first call came in at around noon. I was eating lunch with all my buds. Counting the minutes til we hit the bar. Nothing could bring me down. Nothing.
It was my son’s beloved football coach. Your son has been hurt, but we’re pretty sure he’s going to be just fine.
Alrighty then. Awesome. Thanks for the call. But it’s the last day of school. And I’m not really even sure how you got my number. Wink.
A few hours later. I’m at the bar. I’m feeling good. I’m with Aunt Shelly, my son’s Godmother. Who loves him almost as much as I do. And she’s also feeling good.
Ding-aling-aling…..Another call comes in. This time, it’s Dr. Beau. He thinks we need an x-ray. I said I concur. Aunt Shel concurs. It’s settled. Let’s do this. Talk soon…
A few people were like, oh no, you guys have to leave? Um, what? Why would we do that? We’re not really bone breaking people. I’m sure he’s fine.
And last we checked, we’re not medical personnel. I mean, we’re definitely experts in having a good time. But that’s about where our expertise ends. And we’re okay with that. It’s important to know your limits.
You know how you have that one friend who always has a kid at the emergency room? Always the worst case scenario? Yeah, that’s not us. We’re more of a let’s get an x-ray so it can tell us you’re just freaking fine kinda people.
At least we were.
A few more hours passed. Like super fast. Like almost as if I was in a black out and don’t even remember them. Now, I understand, it’s called shock.
Night was now falling and mother and godmother were feeling no pain. Like zero. Unlike the victim in this story.
And then another, final, call comes in. It’s broken. It’s the growth plate. It’s kinda bad.
Well there’s sure as hell nothing we can do to help this situation tonight. We will wrap up our business at the bar and be home to sleep where we will come-to in the morning in utter shock to find out (again)that my son has indeed broken his leg.
And that’s pretty much exactly how it happened.
I woke up that next morning (thankfully). And sure enough, I was shocked all over again to find out my baby had indeed broken his leg.
How did this happen? What the what? Why didn’t anyone call me?
Once I was sober-ish, I went into full-on, super-caring, mom-mode.
I didn’t just call my nurse friends, like I normally do when I need a sound, over the phone, medical diagnosis. Nope. I got not one, not two, but three separate professional opinions. From real MDs. From three separate medical institutions. One even better than the next.
But there was only one real diagnosis that day. The amazing post-covid summer adventures I had been planning for months, were ova. Poof! Gone. In an instant.
Faster than you can snap your tibia.
No pool. No beach. No cottages. No Great America. No water parks. No tubing. No walking. No running. No working out. No fun.
But that wasn’t even the most shocking realization during all of this. The thing that really struck me was how very little I really knew this child. And man, has that changed.
It started when my friends were asking me, what’s his favorite treat? I want to drop something off to him.
Hmmmm. Let me think about that for a sec. You know what? TBH, I have no freaking clue.
Turns out this is the child I knew least about. He’s the oldest. Independent. Likes to keep to himself. Mostly outside of the home.
When you wake up one morning at three and a half years of age and realize you’re the oldest of four siblings, you make a choice. You either get out there and live your damn life, or you get lost in the mix. This kid got out there. And never looked back.
I mean, I wasn’t even sure what his likes and dislikes were. Now, after months of spending what I can only categorize as “quality time” with this child, I know all too well.
He seems to like being fourteen. He def likes being with his friends. And he sure as hell likes not being stuck at home with me. He’s also pretty darn fond of having two working legs.
And here are his dislikes. In no particular order. A much easier list to compile, mind you.
Me. His siblings. His dad. Being in a cast. Being at home. Having a mom. Having a dad. Having siblings.
Food that isn’t processed chicken. Everything besides ketchup. Gallons of ice cream that aren’t just for him.
He also seems to really dislike being loved. Having a lovely new home. Having his own room. And being cared for.
But all that aside, boy did we have fun together. So much fun that I picked up a part-time job just to make sure we weren’t having too much fun. I’ve never worked a summer in my life. But the time was right.
I ended up working a lot. Alot-alot. I was just so worried that all of our newfound quality time would have an adverse affect on the other children and thought it best if we didn’t get too attached. After all, the doctors all assured us he’d be as good as new in twelve weeks.
And here we are. Almost at that twelve week mark. Almost completely healed. Almost back to normal. Whatever the hell that is.
So now we can just go back to being our freaking selves. Passing each other in the hallway every now and again sharing our pleasantries. The way a family is supposed to interact.
It’s been real, bud. So glad you’re all healed up and living your best damn life again. No one deserves it more. Well, except me. I may deserve it more. But that’s a blog for another time.