Mommy is a Delicate Flower

There is nothing fun about one of your children being ill or hurt in someway. It's a terrible feeling. However, I think a lot of people tend to romanticize it a little bit. You imagine yourself as Mommy Nightingale - doing exactly what needs to be done to get your little angel on the path to wellness.

I remember my own mom taking such wonderful care of me when I was sick growing up - and I got sick a lot. I remember her holding my hair and putting a damp cloth on my neck when I would throw up. I remember back rubs, hot tea and toast, and hours lying in bed together watching game shows and soap operas.  I remember both my parents always knowing exactly what I needed to feel better.

Sadly, I am not that parent.

Oh, I can handle one of them getting a fever. I can snuggle on the couch and dole out medicine with the best of them. I am perfectly capable of reading books and watching silly cartoons to make one of my guys feel better, but anything more intense than that is completely out of my league.

Vomiting? Um - no! I start dry heaving and have to call Duane. 

Blood? Nope! Call Duane to deal with it.

Removing any kind of foreign object from any body part - definitely not! That's Duane's job.

It's actually a little embarrassing how ineffectual I am at dealing with much more than a scrape. I could barely look at the stitches on Ryan's head when he had a cyst removed as an infant. I am a certified wimp.

Take last night for instance. Last night the entire family was at scouts. Duane was in the popcorn room, Ryan was meeting with his den, Wesley was meeting with his den, and I was waiting in the lounge area for all the meetings to be over.  When things wrapped up and Ryan came downstairs, I noticed his fingernail was pretty purple. Turns out he slammed in a bathroom stall door because he was in such a hurry to use the bathroom.

"Did it hurt a lot?" I asked.

"For a little bit," my tough guy answered.

"Did you cry?"

"Just a little."  Of course, it was just a little, he's determined to shake off any pain.

"Do you want some ice for it? Or a band-aid?" 

"No!"

"Should I call Dr. Matt?"

"Mo-om! It's fine!"

And that was the refrain all night. "Mom, it's fine."

Well, when he woke up this morning, that purple nail had turned almost entirely black.  (Disgusting picture below. You have been warned.)

I have to be honest, just looking at his finger made my stomach flip in very unpleasant ways. Even this picture makes me queasy. 

"Do you want me to call Dr. Matt?" I asked.

"No, Mom. It will be fine. I mean, I can't move it much. But it doesn't hurt that much. You don't need to call the doctor."

We made a deal that he'd go see one of the nurses at school if it started hurting more and hurriedly looked away from that nasty finger.

I know this happens and I know it's not that big of a deal, but I also know that his nail will probably end up falling off, which will give me even more heebie jeebies. Seriously, what kind of mom am I that I get so grossed out so easily?