So yesterday, there was this ladybug, and Earl and her best friend down the street got into a fight over said ladybug, and there was wrestling and tussling, and somehow Earl ended up with a tweaked wrist. Now, Earl is a stoic. She may be ultradramatic when something first happens, but then squirrel! and she’s all better.
Well, this morning, she had come down from playing a couple of times complaining that it was bothering her. Great. She’s just started softball and I only yesterday signed her up to start gymnastics this week. Being a massage therapist, I poked around on it and realized she was in real, actual pain. TechPapa and I debated a bit, then I grabbed Earl and headed off to the orthopedic urgent care to have it looked at.
She’s fine, but there’s some possible damage to the growth plate, so the doctor recommended being pretty aggressive with treatment. Allow me to introduce you to “Fuscia” because she doesn’t like the word “cast.” My child is weird.
My child, weaponized.
As soon as we left the UC, I called the other mother to reassure her that there were no hard feelings and we were not upset, that it was nothing major. She was distraught and kept apologizing, saying she didn’t understand, because he didn’t play like that with the other kids.
All I could do was try to swallow my laugh.
See, my best friend growing up was a boy. And we had a total love/hate relationship.
We were both only children, JC and I, and we viewed each other as brother and sister. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t do horrible, awful things to each other. I got a broken foot. We took turns tying each other up, and absolutely meaning it, in his treehouse (and, let me tell you, I ALWAYS got out. He? Never. Ha!). I even once in a fit of insane anger threw a plastic pitchfork at JC and hit him just below the eye, subsequently getting my tail ripped to shreds by who knows how many parents between mine and his.
We traveled together, we played together, we fought together. We bodyslammed each other and wrestled and roughhoused. There’s no point even trying to tally the bruises and contusions and injuries we inflicted on each other. We mercilessly made fun of each other. I ran off girlfriends, and he ran off boyfriends. But somehow, we survived.
And when I didn’t have a date for prom, despite the fact that he was living in South Carolina at the time and I lived in Tennessee, I called him, told him he WOULD take me, and he did. Kicking and screaming and refusing to cut the godawful hair, but he went.
Back when I thought I was Marilyn and he thought he was a Rock God.
Somehow, despite everything, we are still dear friends. We don’t see each other often, but now, we and our spouses are friends. And he adores Earl. He never wanted kids of his own, but Earl? He’s wrapped around that kid’s finger.
The point being, to this day, despite the beatings and ropings and fights and spats and tussles over things I’m sure were equally as insignificant as ladybugs, we survived. Which is why I laughed inside when my neighbor lamented that she just didn’t understand why her son was so rough with Earl. I assured her Earl was just as much an instigator as he was, and that, really, it was fine. I understand.
Trust me. I understand. No, they’re not nearly as close as JC and I were, and I don’t think they’ll ever be attached at the hip, but there’s just about the same age distance between them as there was between us. They’re going to tussle. They will throwdown. They’ll hurt each other. But, hopefully, they’ll get over it. And if the worst we have to show for it is a hot pink cast Fuscia, then I’ll be a happy camper.
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