Wine and Sympathy

My eight year old came off his bike on Thursday afternoon and cut his leg.  What do you mean you know already?  Oh RIIIGHT, you heard his wailing from your house when he did it.  That would explain it.  If you missed that then you may well have heard one of the 96,281 mentions of it yesterday…or one of the 47,624 mentions so far today.  Sheesh.

I know, I’ll probably go straight to hell for being so uncharitable but WOW, there’s only so many times you can sympathise over a cut leg (especially after five and a half weeks of school holidays).

It’s quite a nasty gash and I don’t doubt it really hurt.  It bled profusely and I had to enlist the help of my mum (a retired nurse) to bring better first-aid supplies than those tiny plasters that look like they’re for dolls, a smidge of Calpol and some Strepsils, pretty much the entire contents of our medicine cupboard.

He tried to be brave, bless him (See? SYMPATHY) as she gently bathed his wound in TCP (which we all know stings like a bastard) and then put a large plaster strip on it.  I felt for him, really I did; he’s my son and I love him more than life itself.  I cuddled him, I kissed him and I wiped away his tears.  I told him he was brave and I empathised about how much it must have hurt….but now it’s forty eight hours later and the novelty has well and truly worn off.

You’ve got to understand; he updates me about it ON AN HOURLY BASIS…and that’s if I’m lucky.

Shortly after he’d done it: ‘Mum, it’s still bleeding!’  (With oodles of patience) ‘It will, you’ve got a deep cut.’  ‘Mum, it’s really sore!’  ‘It will be, you’ve only just done it.  It will probably be sore for a few days.’ ‘Why is it hurting so much?’ ‘Because YOU’VE CUT YOUR LEG.’  ‘But it’s REALLY sore.’  (Only slightly gritting teeth), ‘I know, Sweetheart.’

Getting dressed yesterday:  ‘Mum?’  ‘What?’  ‘I’d better not wear long trousers because they’ll rub my sore leg and make it worse, won’t they?’  ‘Maybe.  Wear shorts instead, then.’  ‘Better not wear my denim shorts, though.’  ‘Why not?’  ‘Well, they come to just below my knee and they might dig into my cut.’ (Deep breath) ‘OK, wear some different shorts then.’

After breakfast: ‘Mum, my leg’s still really sore.’  ‘It will be, you have to give it a chance to heal.’  ‘How long will it take to heal?’ ‘A few days.’  ‘How many days?’  (A teensy weensy bit exasperated) ‘I DON’T KNOW!  A FEW!’ ‘I don’t think I’d better play out in case I hurt it again.’  ‘No, okay, good idea.’  ‘I don’t want to go through that again!’  ‘No, I’m sure you don’t.’  ‘Because it REALLY hurt.’ (Eye starts to twitch) ‘Yes, I got that.’

Later that morning: J is crying.  (Maybe not QUITE as kindly as Mother Teresa might have said it) ‘What are you crying for?’  ‘My leg really hurts.’  ‘I know it does but crying won’t make it better, will it?’  ‘No, I suppose not.’  ‘In a few days it won’t hurt and when it starts to itch you’ll know it’s healing.’  Fresh bout of tears.  Wails, ‘But I don’t WANT it to itch!  That will be even worse!’

(Inwardly cursing and muttering ‘Kill me.  Kill me now’) ‘It needs to itch so it can heal.’  ‘I don’t want it to start itching!’  (Snapping ever so slightly) ‘Well I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do about it.’

Sat watching TV: ‘Muuuummm, M is looking at my sore leg!’  (Without looking up) ‘M, don’t look at J’s sore leg.’

Eating lunch: ‘Muuuuummm, Z is sitting next to my sore leg!  He might touch it.’  (Moving into another room so I can roll my eyes) ‘Z, don’t touch J’s sore leg.’

After lunch: ‘It hurts when I jump up and down like this, Mum.’  (With barely restrained irritation) ‘Don’t jump up and down like that, then.’  ‘I don’t think I’d better go on the trampoline.’  (Starting a rhythm of rocking and dribbling) ‘No, that would make sense.’

Later that afternoon: ‘It still hurts to walk, Mum.’  (Sitting on my hands to avoid suddenly discovering them wrapped around his neck) ‘Sit down then.’  ‘I CAN walk, it just hurts.’  (Over the deafening screaming in my head) ‘OK, then.’

Early evening: ‘Mum?’ Pause.  ‘Mum?’  Pause.  ‘Mum? Where are you?’ (Hiding in the wardrobe tightly gripping a bottle of wine and a glass).  ‘Mum? I think my leg’s a bit better.  Come and have a look!’

(Glancing at the glass then thinking better of it and slugging straight from the bottle) ‘OK Sweetheart, I’ll be there in a minute!’