Finalist for Not The Mother of the Year Contest

My 15 year-old slammed his finger in my car door yesterday - just the very tip of his middle finger.  He didn't yell or curse (he says he did; I didn't hear it), just walked around the car flapping his hand a bit.  It was one of those tough slams, the kind where the car door closes all the way and won't give back your finger until you open the door properly so his response was, in my opinion, rather subdued.  The fingertip emerged a violent red color, so much the better to highlight the insta-black nail.  My response was to have him dunk it in a cup of ice water but the pain prevented him from keeping it there.  I dug deep for nursing skills, for something I'd learned in Girl Scouts, and came up empty, repeating, "How is it now?" over our 1/2 hour ride home.  We made it home and his finger didn't fall off in my car so I dosed him with Tylenol and promptly forgot about it.  Continued pain and swelling warranted a trip to the doctor this afternoon; an x-ray revealed a cracked distal phalanx.  Doc strapped it into a splint, remarked that he could have drilled into the nail and relieved some of the pressure if I'd brought him in yesterday, and directed us to return in 3 weeks.  Wow, nice job there, Mom - you really keep your son's well-being at the forefront of your world...

Actually, I was worried during our ride home.  Not so much for his finger, after all, we're talking about a strapping 6' tall, 215lb rising-Sophomore defensive lineman.  He's always got a cut or a scrape, or has picked a scab off some body part, returning said body part to something close to the original injury.  How much hovercraft mothering does he need?  What really worried me was his lack of obvious pain response and the way his emotions hunkered down somewhere inside him.  What happened to the kid who would howl when he skinned a knee?  How did this stoic, mature person arrive in my life?  He's got size 12 feet, for God's sake, but when did he grow size 12 emotions? 

The replacement of my little guy's typical response with my now-giant guy's stiff upper lip was hard to watch - especially since the one who lives here now has still got the little guy's round cheeks and rapid-fire grin.  I couldn't help myself; I told him that it would be okay for him to cry.  He gave me a 'what are you, crazy?' look out of the corner of his eye.  Then I told him that he could cry at home and I would sing to him, like I did when he was small.  He gave me a 'don't make me throw up' look - full frontal disdain here.  So, I swallowed my hurt and dished up the medicine that he prescribed for himself.  I left him alone.

Hearing the result of his x-ray today, I laughed.  Really laughed.  Not a mean laugh at him but more a pathetic laugh at myself for, once again, eliminating myself from the "Mother of the Year" contest.  My response to his injury will now live in family lore.  "Remember when I broke my finger and you ignored it for a day?" will be repeated over and over again, proof of my seemingly careless parenting skills.  I know this for a fact.  When I told his uncle what the kid had done and how I'd responded, my darling brother reminded me of my broken finger, 37 years ago.  My injury is legendary for my own mother's response, "If you can eat pizza, your finger's not broken."  I'm sure she felt awful after my midnight x-ray proved otherwise.  And so the uncanny cyclical nature of parenting rides again...from mom to me to Tom...to infinity and beyond.