My oldest son has a flare for the dramatic. He gets it from me (and a bit from his father) but I think his propensity to show it off began at a much earlier age than mine did. Or maybe I’m painting pretty pictures of my childhood and wearing my rose colored looking-into-the-past glasses.
When he was in Kindergarten we received a telephone call from the school that he had fallen on the playground, was in hysterics and may have broken his arm. Both Chris and I left our respective places of work and rushed to pick him up. His arm didn’t look anything like broken to me. But off we went to the doctor’s office just to be sure.
He continued to cry the whole way there, which was only a matter of blocks from his school, but started to calm down after arriving still holding fast to his “broken” arm. After the nurse checked us into the room to wait for the doctor, we were sitting there all together. He was on my lap and his brother on Chris’ lap next to us. Liam tried to touch him, or come near him somehow and out of nowhere, like a frog’s tongue catching a passing fly, the “broken” arm shot out and swatted his brother’s arm away.
He looked up at me with a sly grin on his face and met my look of confusion-slightly-tinged-with-anger. We had both left work. I had driven across town. Sick children were no doubt waiting in the lobby to see the doctor. This was not okay. The doctor came in and checked the arm. We all had a serious talk about not faking injuries, the whole crying wolf talk if you will.
Fast forward to present day. I drive across town to pick up the boys from my dad’s house so that I can then drive them back across town to get Ciaran to soccer practice on time. I beat them back from the pool and when they arrive I am greeted with the following statement from said 9 year old:
Ciaran: “Mom, before you say anything, I banged my foot on the stairs of the slide at the pool and I’m pretty sure it’s sprained and I don’t think I should go to soccer practice.”
Me: “Oh really.”
This conversation is followed by some dramatic limping until I tell them that we don’t have to leave for about 45 minutes. He then proceeds to make quick haste to the basement to log on to the computer. A few minutes later he comes up the stairs and when he gets within earshot starts making moaning in pain noises. I watch him carefully from the corner of my eye. No limping.
Right before we leave he gets on the trampoline to practice a few more back flips. I look up and see him jump off the tramp and fling himself behind a bush. I listen closely and start to hear the crying. I don’t immediately jump up to go to his rescue, but Grandma does. He has apparently landed on his hand and can’t stand up.
I walk up and tell him that if he landed on his hand he can stand up and to walk down to the house. Grandma is already taking care of getting the ice pack and good thing, because that thought never even crossed my mind. In the kitchen I stand there looking at him while he cries and his grandmother comforts him.
That’s when it hits me.
I spent an hour of this very afternoon reading the book I got yesterday called The Truth About Children and Divorce. I remember telling more than one person how Ciaran is quicker to become emotional since we told them about the separation. I remember saying he needs extra comforting. I remember saying how I was trying to be more cognizant of this and I stood there and did not try to comfort him at all when he was crying out for it.
(If this was Twitter I would insert the big #motherhoodFAIL here.)
As we drove home (not to soccer practice because his cleats weren’t in the pile of cleats I brought with me) I reflected on so many things. On how when the boys were babies we made a conscientious effort not to be the parents that dove to pick them up every time they fell down. How Ciaran has a history of faking injuries, wrapping tiny scratches up in gigantic ace bandages, and putting bandaids on sore parts of his body. On a thousand other things and all the inadequacies I feel as a mother and as a human right now.
I know this is all attention getting activity. I know he is asking in his own way for a little extra TLC. And I realize that I have once again, and in a time of great upheaval in his life, failed to respond appropriately. Even after I sat for an hour this afternoon and read how now more than ever he needs me to be on hyper alert.
So when we got home I picked up his growing and lanky 9 year old self and I carried him out to the patio. I snuggled him on my lap and rocked him. Just him and I. And he laid his head on my shoulder and draped his legs over the side of the chair and he let me rock him and pat his back and touch his hair.
And I felt like maybe, this time, it was better late than never. And I told myself that next time, I wouldn’t wait because at some point, it might be too late.
