Irrational Parenting — Sometimes, it’s the best kind.
When I was seven, I broke my arm. The only problem was that my parents didn’t believe me.
I was playing soccer in the backyard with my siblings and the neighbor’s kids. Somehow I ended up on the grounded crying.
But for some reason, probably because after raising my older siblings my parents didn’t jump at the sound of a scream, they didn’t think I was seriously hurt.
For the next week, I complained to my mom that my arm really hurt. I couldn’t carry my school bag or pick up anything. At the end of the week, my mom had my twin sister at the doctor and mentioned to her, “Oh, you might want to check this one’s arm.” X-rays vindicated me. My arm had a small fracture.
“Do I get a cast?” I asked the doctor.
“Well, since you have lasted this long without one, I think we are okay,” he replied.
To an adult, this would have been a great relief. But to my seven-year-old heart it was a tragedy. You see, ever since a schoolmate had arrived one day boasting a new cast, proudly sitting still as we gathered around to sign it, I had longed to break my arm.
I wanted to be the one to wear the cast everyone clamoured to write on. I wanted to be the one to tell the story of how I got hurt and what it felt like to sit in the hospital and get my arm plastered.
I wanted the attention.
But when I told my friends the story of my bravery, of enduring pain without the help of a cast, it sounded pretty unimpressive even to me. I had been robbed of my cast—my moment.
So the other night, when my husband insisted that my son’s eight-stitch knee wound had healed enough to remove the gauze bandages wrapped around his leg and switch to two adhesive bandages, I understood why my son protested…
Continue reading at Guideposts.com
This in an excerpt from an article written by Janice Croze, co-founder of 5 Minutes for Mom. You can read the conclusion at Guideposts.com
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Jan, I laughed out loud when I read the first sentence here. I had completely forgotten about that broken arm of yours. So funny.
I was 8 when my parents did not believe me. When my grand daughter, Morgan flipped off of a porch railing and landed on her arm; there was no doubt in my mind. (I heard the crack and it was awful; I tear up thinking about it). Times have really changed because she hated that cast and could not wait to get it off!
You longed for a broken arm? Adorable! I always wanted braces! (And honestly, I still do!)
I broke mine in gym class they called my dad to come pick me up. This was 10 am. They called him at 3 to tell I was still there waiting. LOL
A few weeks ago my 2 year had a tantrum about washing her hands after she was playing with our dogs outside. So while I was trying to explain the meaning of why we wash our hands when we play in the dirt she threw her head forward and her tooth hit the counter! My dad and I paniced, we just could not believe that in literally seconds she hurt herself on her own. Needless to say my dad has retired from washing Alexia’s hands.
While reading your story my toddler walked up to me and complained that her teeth hurt. I never shrugged her off but instead asked if I could kiss them and make it better and she leaned forward and said “I love you mama”
I will always keep your experience in mind from this point on. Thanks for sharing.