Broken...
Well after yesterday's moaning blog about son number two not bringing me a present back from his holiday (other than his dirty washing) I must confess to feeling rather ashamed. Having done all his washing and ironing in record time, he presented me with the gift of a spa day at a local posh hotel. This was 'just because' apparently, and I felt really awful...
There have been other occasions where I have misjudged either him or a situation over the years, and I still look back and feel slightly mortified.
I remember being called into school when he was about nine years old, as he had walked into a door, splitting his forehead open quite beautifully. In the car on the way to the hospital, he said to me, 'They're not going to put stitches in are they? Promise me they won't mum'.
As I watched the blood run down his left cheek, I said, 'No of course not sweetie. I expect they'll put a little plaster over it, that's all'.
You see, the last thing I wanted driving down the dual carriageway ay 96mph was a nine year old having a hissy fit, so I lied, just to keep him quiet. Once at the hospital, the lovely nurse told son number two that stitches might be necessary. The look he gave me was one I'll never forget. Seeing that there could be trouble, I took her to one side, and said that if she stitched his forehead, I might as well leave him at the hospital, as he would never speak to me again, as I HAD LIED. She was obviously a mother too, and tactfully taped him up with copious amounts of SteriStrips to hold his head together.
Another time we were back at the hospital with a rugby related injury (same school, same speed up the dual carriageway). It was his collar bone which was causing concern, and the conversation in the waiting room went like this.
'I think it's broken Mum'.
'It's not broken. Don't be daft'.
'But I can stick my finger in between the two bones'.
'You're imagining that. It's not broken'.
This was wishful thinking on my part, as the thought of another four hours in A&E wasn't filling me with joy. Ten minutes later, after the X-ray, the doctor came back and sat down. 'It's broken, I'm afraid', he said.
I got the look then, and I got it again about two years later when we were back at the same hospital, with yet another rugby injury.
'I think it's broken Mum'.
'It's not broken'.
'Remember my collar bone, you didn't think that was broken'.
'Well I was wrong then, but I am sure that your hand isn't broken'.
'Are you qualified to know this Mum?'
'No. But I just know I'm right'.
I was wrong again - it was broken knuckles this time. So I've learned over the years to press on with what I'm good at and obviously medical diagnosing is not one of them.
Unlike ironing. I'm really good at that...
There have been other occasions where I have misjudged either him or a situation over the years, and I still look back and feel slightly mortified.
I remember being called into school when he was about nine years old, as he had walked into a door, splitting his forehead open quite beautifully. In the car on the way to the hospital, he said to me, 'They're not going to put stitches in are they? Promise me they won't mum'.
As I watched the blood run down his left cheek, I said, 'No of course not sweetie. I expect they'll put a little plaster over it, that's all'.
You see, the last thing I wanted driving down the dual carriageway ay 96mph was a nine year old having a hissy fit, so I lied, just to keep him quiet. Once at the hospital, the lovely nurse told son number two that stitches might be necessary. The look he gave me was one I'll never forget. Seeing that there could be trouble, I took her to one side, and said that if she stitched his forehead, I might as well leave him at the hospital, as he would never speak to me again, as I HAD LIED. She was obviously a mother too, and tactfully taped him up with copious amounts of SteriStrips to hold his head together.
Another time we were back at the hospital with a rugby related injury (same school, same speed up the dual carriageway). It was his collar bone which was causing concern, and the conversation in the waiting room went like this.
'I think it's broken Mum'.
'It's not broken. Don't be daft'.
'But I can stick my finger in between the two bones'.
'You're imagining that. It's not broken'.
This was wishful thinking on my part, as the thought of another four hours in A&E wasn't filling me with joy. Ten minutes later, after the X-ray, the doctor came back and sat down. 'It's broken, I'm afraid', he said.
I got the look then, and I got it again about two years later when we were back at the same hospital, with yet another rugby injury.
'I think it's broken Mum'.
'It's not broken'.
'Remember my collar bone, you didn't think that was broken'.
'Well I was wrong then, but I am sure that your hand isn't broken'.
'Are you qualified to know this Mum?'
'No. But I just know I'm right'.
I was wrong again - it was broken knuckles this time. So I've learned over the years to press on with what I'm good at and obviously medical diagnosing is not one of them.
Unlike ironing. I'm really good at that...
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