I was left wondering tonight if my oldest son had just whizzed through adolescence straight into mahhood. He jammed a toe, a painful injury I realize. When I first looked at it, after he had complained like he had a mortal wound, it didn't even look swollen to me. I told him to wear shoes for a couple of days, knowing that even an M.D. wouldn't be able to do anything for a jammed or fractured toe. Later, after playing on it for hours outside, he bagan to complain like he was in labor! We removed the shoes, which he announced were not keeping it from hurting, to examine the toe again. This time it was slightly swollen. Just to be on the safe side, I advised him that in my Mommy M.D. wisdom I thought we should soak it in cold water. I filled a bowl and told him to keep his toes in for about fifteen minutes while he and his brother did Spanish. Oh! The agony! He wailed. He cried. He claimed he was dying. For a while I considered all the reasons I had to torture him, but after about five minutes I told him that if it hurt that much it would be OK even if he didn't soak it.
The toe is feeling much better now. While we were going through Mommy M.D.'s medical persecution, I also thought to give him some Motrin. Guess the real M.D.'s really knew what they were talking about when they told our mothers to "take two asprin and call them in the morning."
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