Bad To The Bone

Last night was our family's eagerly anticipated trip to a local trampoline gym for family night.

We slid...
we jumped...


A grand time was had by all! Right, Thumbelina?


(ahem.) Right, Thumbelina?


That's better.

Coolister was having a great time trying to perfect his front and back flips.



It was all fun and games... until someone got hurt.

ElemenoB found me in the '4 Feet and Under, Please' trampoline yard and told me that Coolister was hurt. "How hurt?" I asked. "He has a bone sticking out of his leg," was her response.

I ran to where he was and saw that a small group had gathered around him. A lady was there, holding his foot. "I'm a nurse," she told me calmly. I caught a glimpse of his injury and knew right then that I needed to remain calm instead of allowing the freak-out that was building up inside of me to happen.

You know it's bad when things don't look as they should. When the parts of your body that you are only supposed to read about in anatomy books are right there, visible. I was amazed by how brave Coolister was. He was not crying, he was not screaming, but I could tell that he was scared.

The first thing he said to me was this:

"I am so sorry this happened, Mom."

I about lost it right there. Here was my boy, in obvious pain, trying to be brave and apologizing to me for getting hurt. "You're going to be okay," I told him. "This was an accident. You don't need to apologize. We're going to do all we can to make things better."

Allen phoned for an ambulance. We waited.

Coolister posed for pictures.


"Does it hurt?" I asked.

"A lot."

Finally the paramedics arrived. They were wonderful.


They gave him some pain medication, stabilized his leg...


and then carried him out


to a waiting ambulance.


When we arrived at the hospital, they gave him 2 wristbands to go along with the one that served as a reminder of what had happened.


Through x-rays it was determined that he had an extreme open dislocation that would require immediate surgery.


The good news was that there were no broken bones. The bad news was that it was dislocated in more than one place. The good news was that he would heal well. The bad news was that he would not be able to choose between running track or playing tennis as his spring sport this year. The good news is that he should be healed and ready for cross country next season, although the bad news is that he will remember this injury every time he runs.

The good far outweighed the bad.

Coolister is doing well today. His pain is manageable and his spirits are good. In a couple of days he will come home and continue to grow stronger.


There were many heroes in this story.

The nurse who happened to be there when we needed her. (I wish I had gotten her name! I was so inwardly stressed-beyond-belief that it didn't even occur to me to ask.)

The paramedics who treated him with such care and concern, who talked with him to keep his mind off of things yet still made sure he understood all that was happening.

Our oldest girls, ElemenoB and Thumbelina, who kept the littler kids occupied through the whole ordeal despite the fact that they must have been scared themselves.

Allen, who let me ride in the ambulance and took the other kids home before meeting up with us at the hospital even though I know he was as worried as I was.

But most of all, Coolister. He was brave beyond belief, cool and composed. He cracked jokes to help make the situation more comfortable for everyone else despite his own fears and realizations of what this injury meant for him. He was constantly thanking everyone for the smallest things when he had every right to be crying in pain.

To everyone involved, I echo his thanks (although that seems insufficient).

To Coolister, you never cease to impress me. I've said it before and I'll say it again - I am so proud to be your mom.

Heroes

Last week I was having a discussion with my Sunday class of 4-5 year olds about who their heroes are.

BatMay-un, SpydoMay-un and even Hannah Muntana were mentioned.

To clarify, I asked them to think of people they would want to be like, those whom they looked up to and thought were amazing.

BatMay-un, SpydoMay-un and SooPaGul were named.

I explained further that Superheroes were, in fact, amazing, but not real people. Could any of them name any real people who were their heroes?

"Is Hannah Muntana for weals?" asked J~.

"Sort of," I answered. "But I mean people who you guys actually know. People who you talk to and see all the time. Someone who does nice things and loves you."

"I KNOW!" shouted Super C. "You is my he-wo, Sisto Bwack!" And all of the other munchkins were quick to agree.

And so, although that wasn't quite the answer I was looking for, I left it at that. Because even if it was just a response to butter me up some, it may have choked me up a little.

Today I am thankful that the funniest, sweetest little people in the neighborhood are my friends. And really - my heroes.

My Little Missionary

I am not sure what it is exactly that holds me back from sharing my religious views with others. Perhaps it is the idea that I may be perceived as preachy or overbearing. Maybe I am afraid of offending someone. Regardless, I have a son who has never felt any of this kind of apprehension. He has a zest for life and when it comes to sharing his faith and beliefs regarding our religion, no one is exempt.

When Allen and I returned from our trip on Sunday, All-a-Boy told us of his latest missionary experience.

On Saturday All-a-Boy was riding his bike around the neighborhood when he was greeted by two missionaries getting into their car. They asked how he was doing and then inquired if he knew of any people in our neighborhood who were not members of our church. All-a-Boy immediately responded, "Sure I do! Just follow me!" The missionaries jumped into their vehicle and slowly followed behind All-a-Boy's bike as he led them around the block to the home of our neighbors across the street, a friend that All-a-Boy has invited to church on numerous occasions - with no luck. All-a-Boy went to the door with the missionaries and knocked. When his friend S~ and her mom answered, he said, "Hey, S~! I wanted to introduce you to the missionaries."

Greetings were exchanged and small talk was made - and then S~'s mom joked, "Well, All-a-Boy, since this whole thing was your idea I'd expect you to have a story or something to share with us." So he did. He launched into a re-telling of the prophet Elijah and his "sacrifice burning contest" with the prophets of Baal. He then recounted a story of Wilford Woodruff on his mission in England and how he converted a constable who was sent to arrest him.

The visit ended with All-a-Boy sharing his testimony with S~ and her mom about what makes our church different from others and why he loves it so much. Before leaving, All-a-Boy asked if they would like to come to church with our family next Sunday. S~'s mom told him that they could probably come in two weeks.

All-a-Boy was beside himself with excitement as he shared this story with me.

I was beside myself with amazement at the conviction and determination of my boy.

I want to be more like him.

I Need To Remember

(I love this picture of Coolister. It really captures his personality well.)

I needed to hurry and write this before the warm fuzzies went away. It's something I need to remember ...but I tend to forget.

As the oldest child (and a boy, to boot) Coolister's job is to torture his younger siblings. To push their buttons. To drive me absolutely out-of-my-mind crazy by doing these things. I remember well how my oldest brother had this same role in our family. No one liked it, but such was life.

However.

Today was the perfect example of how Coolister is NOT the typical oldest man-child.

He came home after track practice, close to 6:00 pm, ready to either eat or sleep for an hour before attending his church activity night at 7:00. He walked into the kitchen, got a drink of water, and was immediately bombarded with questions from his little sisters and brothers. ElemenoB wanted help with her math, as did All-a-Boy. Princess wanted someone to help her read her sight words and cut out her 'word worm'. Hubba wanted a train story read to him.

Coolister helped Princess figure out some of her words first. Then he sat down with ElemenoB and went over her math problems for 15 minutes. She wasn't getting it. "I'll just ask my teacher for help tomorrow," she told him. But he was determined to help her understand. Another 5 minutes passed and it clicked. She got it.

He moved over to All-a-Boy who was frustrated with fractions. "I just don't get it!" All-a-Boy exclaimed. Coolister knew what to do. "Rulers always helped me understand these better. Let's make you one," he stated like a true teacher. I was in awe. Actually, I was in (happy) tears, but my back was to the kids so they couldn't see. Coolister worked with him for at least 20 minutes before moving on to spend some time with the littlest kids.

This boy is a rare jewel. I need to remind myself often of what a great kid he is. It is so easy to become frustrated with his lack of enthusiasm for practicing the piano and getting chores done. It is so easy to overlook the amazing thing that is happening right before my eyes: a 15-year-old boy cares so much for his younger siblings that he takes the time to sit with them and teach them what he knows. He makes the time to bond with the littlest members of the family and truly enjoys it.

It even goes beyond this.

It is heartwarming to watch him at cross-country or track meets. Not only does he cheer for all of his teammates, he cheers for the 'underdogs' on the other teams. At the last meet I attended we were on the sidelines, cheering for his school. Once they had all passed the finish line there was still one boy, far behind, who was putting in his best effort to finish. "Keep it up, man!" Coolister yelled to him despite the lack of cheering from the boy's own teammates. "You're almost there, kick it in to the finish! That's it! Yeah!!" he cheered, clapping and motioning him in to the finish line. Then he turned to me and said, "Man, kids like that - who you can tell aren't natural runners - when they race and really put in their best effort, those guys are my heroes. That's got to be tough." Again, tears. Thank heavens for sunglasses.

Not to discount my mothering skills, but I swear to you he came to me this way. He was born with a tender heart and genuine love for others.

Like I said, he is good at the typical teenage boy stuff. But it is when I make the time to remember all of these other rare qualities that I realize how very lucky I am to call him my son. Because beyond the fact that we are family, there is this:

He is my hero.