There are moments when you look back and wonder about certain events in your life. The most memorable are usually the more defining moments. Your first kiss, your first car, the first time you could buy sugary cereal, you know, real moments. I had one of those moments this week, but it wasn't one of those positive defining memories.
I was sitting at this very desk working away when Kid #3 started climbing on the desk, slipped a bit and hit his hip on the corner of the desk. Let me be clear for all those active imaginations out there, he was fine, no blood, no scratch, barely even a red area on his hip. For him however, it was broken he was sure of it. Crying, wailing, he pulled out all the stops.
Now, I grew up with a sister who was four years younger than me. In our interactions and playing, she would often get hurt, usually with no assistance from me. But when I was the one who caused her pain, I would respond as if I was Doogie Houser, MD and begin the diagnostic. (It's funny how she was never concerned about the fact that her assaulter was now her medic) If for example she hurt her finger or hand, I would state, "Well if you can bend your finger up and down, then it is probably broken!" Being the attention seeker that most little girls are, she took the bait and began frantically bending her finger, clearly indicating that she did not in fact have a broken appendage. At which point I would "lovingly" push her away and declare she was fine. This, I am certain would still work today.
Having had such great success with this approach, I deftly applied the same tactic on #3. He responded the same way. His reply simply was "I can walk on my legs with no limp! It is broken!!" Trying to quell the hysteria, I proceeded to explain to him that if it were indeed broken we would definitely need to take him to the doctor's office (at 8:45 PM) With his older siblings just the mention of a doctor would have miraculously healed their greatest ailments, so I felt rather confident this would end similarly.
It was in this moment that he caught on, and I missed it, or perhaps my pride stepped in and wouldn't accept defeat from a four year old. He calmed down and said, "OK dad, let's go to the doctor." Determined to prevail, I continued with the empty threats and lies.
Me: "Well son, if we go he will have to give you a shot, probably a lot of shots..."
#3: I know, I will be brave so I can get a treat after wards."
Me: If it is broken in just a certain spot, they may have to remove your leg completely."
#3 a bit fearfully: "How will I walk?"
Me, triumphantly: We'll have to get you a plastic leg that will be strapped to that side of your bum."
I should also mention that this conversation is happening in the car, on the way to the doctor's office, which is closed. I NEED him to give in before I get to the office, and he realizes that I am bluffing.
#3, excitedly: So I'll have a robot leg?!"
Me: "But what about the shots and the saw to cut off the leg? Remember when you had to get stitches and you dried so much??"
#3: "Yeah, but that's when I was three, now I'm four, I'm a lot tougher,"
I was toast, we pulled into the doctor's office, I was still grasping on to a shred of hope, now that we were here, he would lose his nerve and want to go home, admitting to me that it was not really broken. Instead, we got out, walked up to the automatic doors, clearly closed at 9:00 PM at night. All I could say was, "I guess we'll have to wait until tomorrow morning, I sure hope you don't get an infection in the night..." I was hopelessly committed to a lost cause. When we got into the car to go home, he laughed and said, "It's not really broken, I was just joking!"
This was a defining moment when a small part of me died. In reality, many small parts died, some dignity, some authority, some pride, and a lot of credibility. The next 20 years with this one will be interesting.
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