Oh, my daughter. How I love her every move. Her style and wicked grace. Her sharp wit and sarcastic mind. Even when she is driving me slowly (or quickly) up the tree, I adore her.
This is one of those times.
(Tuesday night - the night of the injury - at bedtime.)
Brynna: Gazing up at her ladder. I cannot climb the ladder. My foot is weak. I think you'll have to lift me into bed.
Me: I can't lift you into bed. You're too big and the bed is too high. I'll help you, though.
Brynna: But HOW?!? My foot is so weak and pained and it will never *sob* bear weight again.
Me: Okay, but really, I can help. Here put your hands on like you were going to climb, then step up with your good foot.
Brynna: This is never going to work. Maybe I'll just sleep on the beanbag chair.
Me: Just put your foot up here and okay... Boost.
Brynna: Great, just six more steps to go.
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(Yesterday morning, while we were leaving for school.)
Brynna: Are you writing a note?
Me: Yes.
Brynna: To my teacher?
Me: Yes.
Brynna: Telling her that my foot is weak?
Me: Sort of.*
Brynna: I don't think I'll be able to walk to the cafeteria.
Me: Yes, you will.
Brynna: Or pass out papers.
Me: Yes, you will.
Brynna: Or go and get a drink of water.
Me: Yes. You will.
Brynna: Then what do you think I won't be able to do?
Me: Run, jump, climb the monkey bars.
*The not explained the injury and asked that she not be asked to participate in any running or jumping activities for a day or two and made special note of her melodramatic tendencies. I don't want the teacher to think I'm allowing her to run around on a broken, stabbed, infected mess of a foot.
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(This morning, getting dressed.)
Brynna: Mommy, I need a new bandage.
Me: Yeah, I'll get the stuff.
Brynna: That looks like a bandaid.
Me: It is.
Brynna: But what about the big bandage?*
Me: I'm out of that stuff and this is just as good.
Brynna: I might bleed through it.
Me: It didn't bleed at all yesterday. Not even a little. I can show you the bandage. Not bloodstained.
Brynna: It might.
Me: You can put an extra in your pocket just in case of random bleed through.
Brynna: You know my foot is weak, right? I can't just slap a bandaid on that and pretend it's okay!
Me: Your foot is bruised, it's sore. It hurts and it bothers you to put weight on it, but it is not weak. Weak is when the muscles atrophy and won't do their job.Which will happen if you keep walking around pretending like it's the end of the world. People step on nails every day and they are fine. Fine. We take care of it, we keep it clean and keep ointment on it and it'll be better before you know it. This is not a tragedy.
Brynna: I need crutches.
*The first night, she was having trouble with bandaids and the ones I bought were too big so I put on a piece of gauze and it to her foot with the stretchy bandage they use when you have your blood drawn.
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If you could see her face through any of this!
5 comments:
Last night she walked to the car just fine. As I opened to door for her to get in I remarked how her foot seemed much better. She stopped looked at me and said, "Well, not really. It is still weak." And she limped the last two steps to the car.
I told her she was "milking it" this morning. She said, "I am not a cow," and limped angrily out of the room.
"My foot is so weak and pained and it will never *sob* bear weight again.
LOLOLOL! Oh the drama!! She's funny :) Claire goes through a box of band-aids every few weeks. She wants band-aids on EVERYTHING. *sigh*
*snicker* On more than one occassion, I have told my son stop being such a "drama queen". Is it hereditary, our punishment for the drama and angst we hurled at our parents, or something in the water?
I'm pretty sure it's genetic. *sigh*
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