The Non-Alarmist Mother

I come from a long loin-age of Non-Alarmist Mothers. My Gram, a nurse, is condescendingly unimpressed with minor cuts, broken bones, and the ease of a medicated childbirth in an actual hospital, versus a tent or while hand plowing a field.

Yawn.

She hales from the days when it was kosh to ring my Gramps, from the hospital, day or night, to request a pint or two of his blood, for whatever type O pos, accident victim happened to be bleeding out on her watch. True story. I think.

Later, she begat my Mother, undoubtably, while canning jam, with nothing for the sting of labor but a piece of bark. This is where the story gets fuzzy, but I imagine my Gram, immediately putting my newborn Mother to work washing jars, or maybe nonchalance is just passed through the placenta.

I remember a time or two, when I started to learn first hand about the "wait and see" method of diagnosing injuries. There was the time I got sent home from school with a hurt ankle, and my Ma told me to walk next door to my Gram's to see what she thought.......Fractured. I think my Gram may have even had me walk home so my mom could take me to the doctor.

Then there was the time my parents were playing tennis, and Jordan and I were riding our bikes off some sweet curbs. They were probably only in their first set, when I executed a wicked poppa wheelie and broke my collar bone. I lay there for some time until the sky turned dark and the sprinklers came on. The squirt, squirt, squirt, of the sprinklers mixing with my tears...Just kidding, I am not sure who I inherited the drama from, but I did lay there about 20 minutes before the folks decided I wasn't going to shutty anytime soon.

So here I am. I am that Mother at the playground who gives a high five to the Chitlins when they fall off the swings or a quick kiss on a scrape and then pats them on the butt, to get back out there. I've waited a day or several, before getting a sore throat checked, and for the most part it's worked out fine. Like my Gram says, "This too shall pass."

When Dyl came home today, he was all a bluster about a horrible bloody wound he had incurred during recess. Apparently it was so life threatening that they had to take him inside and wash it thoroughly with soap and water and then...... a rest. He didn't mention arterial spray, but the Boy peaked my interest, with his description of the intense cleansing and debriding.

Be forewarned: The Following Pictures Are Intensely Graphic.

All this near amputation needed was a Superman Bandaid, and a kiss from Moi.

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