Contributed by Shell Suber
When I was 7, my parents left my 5 year old bother and me in the care of my 14, 12 and 10 year old cousins in Pennsylvania and went out to one of those adults-only-drinking-wine-in-the-sun-all-day events that horse people love so much.
Naturally, an atomic pillow fight erupted not long after they left. I was sent flying backwards down a long, steep flight of wooden stairs in their old farmhouse. I spent the rest of a very long day at the bottom of those steps holding my arm.
When the adults finally returned – tired and well lubricated – I didn’t get the sympathy I felt my condition warranted. Instead, I got unhelpful advise like “Just move it around” and “Do this and it will feel better” (accompanied by giant circular motion with arm). It was decided I was whiny and irritating and sent to bed.
When the whining/irritating persisted into the morning, Mom finally started to pay the matter some of the nervous attention for which moms are famous. I was taken to the doctor where an x-ray confirmed my collar bone was broken.
Mom was horrified and guilt ridden. I was vindicated and more than a little smug about it and never let her forget it. Never. I brought it up at my wedding. [Side note: To this day I still don’t understand that saying ‘I hate to say I told you so.’ Seriously? I LOVE saying that. It’s like my favorite thing to say.]
Anyway, fast forward to this Saturday morning, 30something years later. While I was drinking beer at The Masters no less, my 6 year old daughter – a world class whiner like her old man – fell from the monkey bars. She complained about her arm the rest of the day and into the night and picked up right where she left off the next day. Finally on Monday, she won a trip to the doctor where – yep – an x-ray confirmed her wrist is broken.
She couldn’t be more pleased with herself. Mom, I imagine, is looking down and saying ‘I told you so.’
