Apparently, in honor of Mother’s Day, MJ decided to test my mothering stamina. After being awoken to cries of “Mom, are you getting up? I want breakfast! C’mon! It’s 7:30.” Stop right there. Isn’t it Mother’s Day? Where’s my breakfast tray adorned with bowls of assorted sugar-laden cereals and dandelions stuck in plastic cups? Where are the angelic faces of my children, lined up, dressed in their Sunday best, hair perfectly coifed and smelling of apple cider? Oh right, I saw that in a television commercial. Anyhoo, after my whole four hours of sleep (not in a row, mind you), I drag myself out of bed to get breakfast and everyone ready for church, knowing that I need to leave with MJ halfway through the service to bring her to the second game of her soccer tournament. I was looking forward to this, since I was leaving E and little M with JD, I could actually sit and enjoy watching the game.
Everything was going according to plan. MJ played goalie during the first half. No goals were scored on her. I was chillin’ with the other moms. My day was looking up. Then during the second half, MJ sat on the bench next to her coach. And she sat. And she sat. Why isn’t he putting her out? What’s wrong with him? Is she not feeling well? She looks fine to me. Get her out there! This is it! Tournament! Three whistles—game’s over. I walk across the field to see my daughter holding her hand. “Are you hurt?” I ask. “Yeah,” she says, “I got kicked in the hand by a girl on the other team when I went to grab the ball.” Aahhh … I did not see this. Nobody saw this. The ref didn’t see it. I look at her pinkie finger. It looks like one of those mini sausages you get in the freezer section.
Off to the ER, thinking along the way, am I overreacting? Maybe I just need to take her home and put ice on it. That’s what they’re going to tell me, then snicker behind my back, “I can’t believe that mom brought her daughter in for a bruised finger.” Meanwhile, I’ll have spent my afternoon in the hospital. On Mother’s Day. But it’s really swollen, I argued with myself, and she was kicked by a cleat-wearing soccer forward who thought she was kicking a ball, not the tiniest of fingers on my baby’s sweet, tender hand.
Luckily, we didn’t have to wait at all. I guess people generally behave themselves on Mother’s Day. The doctor was great, although when he first walked in, I was questioning his qualifications to treat my first-born as he looked like he should have been out skateboarding or something, perhaps breaking some bones of his own. Is it just me or are the doctors these days getting younger and younger? And don’t comment to me that I’m just getting older, because I know that can’t be it.
Well, no need to worry about my decision-making skills. Her finger was broken. They proceeded to wrap her entire hand with a splint that goes all the way up to her elbow. Okay, now who’s overreacting. No, that’s just temporary until we go see the orthopedic doctor. She may end up with a hand cast. If so, she’s hoping for a purple one.
So, did they win the soccer game, you ask? No, it was a 3-1 loss, with all the goals scored in the second half. I went home and took a nap. MJ made a mental list of all the things she probably won’t be able to do for the next six weeks—play violin, go swimming, do her chores, ride her bike … wait a minute, what was that third one? Oh, and did I mention it was Mother’s Day?
