Write-in Vote for Worst Mother of the Year Award

The bubbles ascend lightly within the giant fish tank, with their gentle calming rhythm enticing an outsider to wonder like the incredible Mr. Limpit, “What would it be like to be…oh I wish, I wish I were a fish.” Inside the enormous tank is a varied collection of fishes, and their fin patterns and swimming technique are intriguing. Fish do not have a care in the world. Fish live in a serene and quiet existence. Fish don’t need x-rays for broken bones. My little man N. likes the all-black fish with a bright orange tail. “What kind do you think he is, mommy?” His questions pull me out of my distracted, questioning mind and try to find a good name for some fish that carries enough pride to wear our school district’s colors with such definitive pride.

Fish tanks are always in the Emergency Room waiting area for very specific reasons and they always perform their amazing magic for my children, doing exactly what they are supposed to do in a time of stress, questioning and pain. They distract and calm patient and parent, both in pain for different reasons. It’s Saturday night, very late, and we have finally returned home from a church Family Day at our church camp in the Atwood Lake region. We were there with several people from our corps and 47 other corps – hundreds and hundreds of people, and great fun on a terrific weather day. Right after lunch we trekked up to the top of the hill: I was a chaperone available for the large, inflatable games, three that were high and exciting, and promising great fun. There were several adults present to insure safety for all, I was one of them and the still the worst possible result happened for my little man.

He is such an athletic boy, who is always moving – never walking, always running. He got to the slide long before I did, and by the time he finished one ride he was complaining of pain in his foot. “It really hurts, mom.” So I gave him my bottle of cold water and chair, and quietly reached for my Tic Tacs…it has always worked before. He has never needed much dramatic care when it comes to boo boos. He has always worn his pain on his sleeve, using a big cry since he was a toddler, letting you know that something is wrong. But all he has ever needed to do was show it to me, let me rub it, take a drink and tell me how it happened and then accept a Tic Tac. (yes I use placebos, and he is my #1 success rate. Tic Tacs are the most amazing over the counter, “don’t need a prescription to get rid of the pain” kind of medicine magic!) For him, the biggest healing power has always been the telling of his story, many times re-enacting the event, which has been an insight to his perspective and how he sees the world. I even took a few pictures of his foot, mostly for him to see the comparison that there was no swelling yet. Within minutes, he’d be bouncing off with my tried and true Dr. Mom diagnosis: “You’ll be fine and dandy like alligator candy.”

Well, Mr. Fine and Dandy was not eating alligator candy this day. But he was brave and strong, limping slightly through the rest of the hour on the hill, limping noticeably throughout the rest of the day. He went swimming, canoeing, and walked over 5 miles since 1:15 and we would check with him about the progress his foot was feeling. A few more Tic Tacs and a little pep talk, “it will feel better soon.” Usually the impact pain has long gone and things are just a little sore. I don’t want to say I didn’t believe my little man, but he can be very dramatic to emphasize a point or try to let you know he doesn’t want to do something.

So here we sit in the ER hours and hours later and as I describe the timeline to these doctors I feel convicted that it has been over 8 hours from when he said that it hurt and when I really took him seriously. That timeline was my responsibility. My child. My calling to be his caregiver. Why is he the one who always has to wait? Why am I always underestimating the pain or damage he is in? Why do my children always get hurt when they are with me, never with anyone else?

The fish circle and dive and my heart is forever questioning my capability to be a mom: second-guessing everything I do and the reasons why. As he is entranced with these fish, I am entranced with him: he who has forgiven me for so many mistakes and errors, loss of temper or forgetful memory. He is the one of my children who has stopped my heart so many times: He didn’t thrive at birth, instead stubbornly not gaining weight. Born at 8 pounds even, he was 11 pounds at 7 months old and wasn’t placed on a normal growth chart until age 6. His RSV at 16 months was treated as a cold for three days (because it was the final stretch to Christmas Distribution) until I was startled by his coloring. (I called our pediatrician during Distribution and got a sick appointment for 4:00 p.m. that day and 4:17 my babe in arms was admitted into the hospital – I should have taken that cold more seriously.) He was #3 in our TANK, and I was very overwhelmed with his presence. He wasn’t the baby anymore when he was merely 17 months old, vacating the crib for a baby sister, expected to grow up over night. I was happy and floating off the ground with him in my life, but overwhelmed nonetheless. Dave and I were outnumbered by the little people in our lives and I was trying very hard (and succeeding and failing publicly) at keeping it all together.

His body is a story of scars and near-death events, which he relished telling the Radiologist doctor who was transporting him to the x-ray room. (Right here on my chin…over here on my arm…this spot on my head…these stitches right here…) Men love to tell their scar stories, they revel in it, and in this doctor N. had an enthusiastic active listener. The doctor showed N. his own scars and told his stories, too, emphasizing N. strength and bravery. Mommies kiss the boo boos, but these men, they retell the injury with death-defying valor and courage, emphasizing the great strength (or stupidity) it took to face the event.

So going home with a promise to call with a further consultation, it is a fractured foot that I had him walking around all day on. A broken bone medicated with pep talks and Tic Tacs. He has another story to tell - he's weirdly excited. I, on the other hand, want to crawl under a rock.

I am the write in vote for the Worst Mother of the Year award.