All my kids do it, turn minor injuries in to life threatening emergencies. Stubbed toes are lauded with open mouthed wails, bumps with crumpled faces and inconsolable sobs.

The best example of these exaggerated reactions came a couple of years ago. My six year old son was four at the time and we’d embarked on a harmless trip of mini-golf, designed to entertain the tribe and kill some time on a Saturday. It was also a sponsored event that featured free bagels and orange juice. Win-win.

We were making the rounds on one of the courses and my husband and I were marveling at how well everyone was behaving considering they were all in possession of long and potentially dangerous sticks. The bold signs denouncing sword play with the clubs told us this was a common occurrence.

Somewhere around hole 16 it happened. My son stumbled and fell hard on the concrete. We quickly scooped him up and brushed him off. “It’s okay, you’re fine. Just keep playing.” Not a single tear had been shed, our efficient nonchalance had the desired effect. He wandered off to the next hole, golf club in hand, without another whimper.

Crisis averted.

Until my son caught sight of his elbow after his sister remarked, “Oh my God, you’re bleeding!”

Cue the dramatic music.

My son ran toward us, his mouth opened wide and emitting a sound that was part police siren, part guttural caveman hoot. “Blood, blood, blood.”

“It’s just a scrape,” we said, examining the the injury. “We’ll put a band-aid on it. It’s fine.”

Still the wails continued as we tried to calm him down. We wiped away the tiny droplets of blood as he cried, his eyes wild and disconnected.

“I don’t feel so good,” he said. His lips were pale, his skin ashen. “I have to lie down.” He sat on the concrete and got completely horizontal, laying on the hot walkway like he’d been shot.

“Honey, get up.” I scooped up his limp body as my husband darted to the van where I’d left the first aid kit. Our golf game abandoned, we wandered over to the nearest bench and sat him down. His skin was cold and clammy, his complexion sickly.

“Baby, are you alright?” Two seconds later he threw up his breakfast, right at my feet. I managed to dodge the spillage as I packed him up yet again and moved to another less conspicuous bench where we couldn’t be fingered out for abandoning the remnants of his little mishap.

By the time my husband returned with a band-aid and an antiseptic wipe, my son’s eyes were rolling up in to the back of his head – he was going to faint. Off went the husband again to get some OJ as I tapped my son gently on the cheeks. Now it was my turn to freak out, my baby was going in to shock over a scraped elbow and he looked like death warmed over, as the rest of the kids stood around looking more annoyed than concerned.

Luckily the OJ did the trick. The color returned to my son’s cheeks, the offending scrape was hidden from view and all was right with the world. Until about an hour later when we tried to stop for lunch. I’ll spare you the details of that little adventure, suffice to say there was fecal matter involved and a public restroom setting and more wipies than I could ever possibly carry.

Sorry, Burger King.

Apparently the sight of his own blood adversely affects my son’s digestive processes. I suppose him entering the medical field is out of the question. Better that we discovered this now than after years of costly med school bills.

—–

For more mole hills disguised as mountains, visit Sprite Keeper’s Spin Cycle. It’s HUGE! Enormous! Really. Go.

---

Possibly related posts: (automatically generated)

• Later and lighter than I have been recently.