Eating crow

Waiter, I'll have an order of crow, please. And a Diet Coke.

When I was young, I broke my arm four times. Each arm twice. Four years in a row. The first three times my mom, being the good nurse that she is, refused to believe I had a serious injury and waited for a period of time (the longest a few days) before she took me in for x-rays.

I swore that when I became a mother, I would not do that. If my kid said he was hurt, by gosh I would believe him.

Waiter, could I have that crow battered and fried, please?

Yesterday Charlie had a soccer game. On the way to the game, we learned that one of his soccer teammates had been pretty seriously hurt in a football game earlier in the day. Charlie asked a lot about his injuries, how it had happened and if he was going to be ok. (He is.) Then he started re-living all of his on-field injuries, most of which were bigger in his head than they had been in reality. I could see where this was going.

"Charlie," I said. "If you get hurt today, you are not to lay on the ground moaning. You need to shake it off and get back in the game."

"But what if I'm running my fastest and I run into their biggest guy really hard? Can I stay down?"

"Only if you are bleeding or there are bones sticking out."

Charlie's reputation as a seasoned injury actor is well documented. I was trying to head off at the pass any plans of a repeat performance.

Just as I had predicted, about 10 minutes into the game, Charlie had the ball and was streaking downfield toward the opposing team's goal. He collided with a defender and landed a bit awkwardly.

"My wrist! My wrist!," he screamed as I sat watching from my chair about 5 feet away.

"You're fine. Shake it off," I called to him.

By this time he was rolling on the grass, the 12-year-old referee was hovering over him and the coach was on his way out to where Charlie lay moaning.

"Amy, I think he's really hurt this time," said one of the other soccer moms.

"He's fine."

"Amy, go over there," Mike said.

"He's fine," I said, while reluctantly getting out of my chair and walking over to him.

"Charlie, get up. Your team needs you," I told him, not especially sympathetically.

"Mom, it huuurrts!"

"Charlie, your team has no subs. You have to get up."

He got up, sat on the sidelines and iced it for the rest of the half.

"Amy, I know how Charlie is, but I saw that fall. It looked pretty bad," said one of the moms.

I acknowledged that I was sure the initial fall hurt and his wrist might be a bit sore, but I thought his carrying on was mostly for the drama.

Does that crow come with fries?

During the second half, he went back in the game and I watched him closely to see if he would forget about the "hurt" wrist in the heat of competition. He had a few good runs, but did seem to be a little less aggressive than usual.

With about seven minutes left in the game, he fell again. I could see it coming. Again with the tears. Again with the "my wrist!" Again, over to the sidelines with the ice. I went over to where my future Screen Actors Guild member sat next to the coach.

"Charlie, I'm sure your wrist is sore," I said, trying a softer approach. "I think you're ok, but I'll give you some ibuprofen when we get home."

After the game as we were packing up our chairs to head home, someone asked if he needed more ice. I said I thought he was fine with the (no longer cold) insta-ice pack he already had. In my own defense, his wrist really wasn't that swollen.

So we came home and went about our afternoon. I did notice that he wasn't using his left arm much, so I gave him some ibuprofen. I thought about taking him across the street to our doctor neighbor, but she wasn't home and he really didn't want to go.

After he was asleep, I went into his room to see how he would respond if I touched and squeezed his wrist.

"Don't do that!" he sleepily muttered.

Hmmm...maybe I was wrong.

Caw! Caw!

This morning as he was getting dressed for church, I saw that he was pulling on his pants with just his right hand. So, after church I called my mom and asked if it were her, would she take him in? Amazingly, she said yes. Guess she's learned her lesson.

So off we went to the urgent care center. Where they took x-rays and where I could see with my own eyes before the doctor even pointed it out to me, a fracture in his left wrist.

Waiter, could I get a side of guilt with that crow?