My Poor Baby

The other day, Elder wandered into the kitchen, his entire body on huge slump. “I didn’t have a good practice,” he murmured. “I don’t know what was wrong. I just couldn’t play. Then I fell on my hip. That’s the quickest bruise I think I’ve ever gottem.”

So I made sympathetic noises and resisted the urge to slobber all over my poor baby, like I used to could before he grew taller than me.

Then we went to his game the next night where I watched him get tangled up with another player and hit the gym floor. He popped back up on his feet, running to the other side of the court while rubbing the sore hip with one hand.

The next time he landed on the bench, I studied him from only two bleachers up. I considered sliding down the two feet separating us and inquiring about his hip. But I resisted the motherly urge with great and admirable determination.

Do you think teenagers care about all those times we could have embarrassed them and didn’t? Do you think that they consider a balance in favor of less embarrassment is really the best to be expected.

Yeah, me neither.

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3 responses to “My Poor Baby

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