I Can't Stand Up for Falling Down

Given that Nathan had played soccer, lacrosse, and hockey on and off for the last 13 years, I considered myself lucky that he had never gotten seriously injured. I never thought soccer was a seriously combative sport, until I attended a game two years ago where a player broke his leg. Actually, Nathan did get mildly injured once.

Unfortunately, Nathan’s only sports injury occurred when I wasn’t at the game. I rarely missed games, but I missed a hockey game one Winter night. I got a call from Nathan’s Dad; he said, “Nathan was illegally checked tonight.”

Technically, I don’t think he had a concussion. He was hit hard, got the wind knocked out of him, and then stayed on the bench the rest of the game. Fortunately, the player who check him was thrown out of the game, and the coach of the opposing team actually sent Nathan’s Dad (an assistant coach) an email of apology.

Last Saturday, Nathan took the car to go over to a friend’s house. He was supposed to sleep over, but as usual, when you’re 17-years-old, plans change rapidly and he came home. But, at 10pm, Nathan decided it was time for plans to change rapidly again.

He said, “Mom, I borrowed a long board from a friend.” I asked, “What’s a long board?” He said, “It’s kind of like a skate board but longer.” I should have known, right?

Still mystified as to why Nathan had a skateboard that was long, because he was never a skateboarder, he said, “So, I’m going to go out and try it.” I said, “It’s 10pm, Nathan.” He said, “Yeah, I know. So?”

Of course, on many a late night, I had ventured out with my iPod and the dog. How was this different? Oh, yes, I was 40-something, and he was only 17.

I thought about it. I said, “Well, okay. Be careful.” He rolled his eyes, and he was off.

Nathan had always been his own person, but he had never been a skateboard person. While I was worried about him tooling around the dark streets of the neighborhood on a long board, I liked that he was trying something that was not Nathan.

I sat there watching TV, thinking that if he was not home in 45 minutes that I would drive around the neighborhood. That was a last resort, but this was my “baby boy” on a wheeled piece of wood. No matter how cool I thought it was that Nathan was experimenting in extreme sports, I was still worried.

Less than thirty minutes later, I heard the front door open. I called, “Nathan?” from upstairs. He said, “Hai!” Yes, “Hi” isn’t spelled like that, but that’s the way he says it.

So, he was home with his long board. From what I could hear in his voice, he had no broken bones. Just then, I heard him stomp up the stairs.

I was sitting at my desk. Instead of going into his room, grabbing the Ethernet cable, and plugging in his X-box, because I have lame DSL and not rippin' FIOS, he got to the top of the stairs and walked toward my desk. He sighed, and as he rolled up his sleeves, he said, “I hate it when this happens.”

Both of his elbows were badly scraped. I said, “Oh!” He pointed to his left elbow and said, “Oh, that was from last night. This one is from tonight.”



I looked at the raw skin on his right elbow. I said, “Aw, Nathan. What happened?” He answered, “Well, you know on Pearl Street where the road goes downhill and you cross the rail trail? Well, I kinda went pbtpbtpbtpbtpbt [ed. passing gas sound], I speed wobbled [ed. I still have no idea what this means], and then I crashed.

After that description, I wanted to laugh. I looked at his raw elbow and winced. I said, “Come to the bathroom. We need to clean that out.”

Surprisingly, Nathan followed me instead of saying, like when I offered various snacks for his Dungeon and Dragons gatherings, “Mom, don’t. It’s not necessary.” Oddly, the night before, I had sent two six-packs of root beer, a bag of Doritos, a bag of potato chips, a box of chocolate chip cookies, and a bag of M&Ms to such a gathering, and it's always gladly accepted. When we got to the bathroom, I washed his cut with alcohol, applied a layer of Neosporin, and put two Band-aids on his elbow.

After this, he then went into his room, grabbed the Ethernet cable, and plugged in his X-box. I threw the cotton ball and band-aid wrappers into the trash and washed the Neosporin off my index finger. I smiled but not where Nathan could see me.

I knew my “baby boy” was getting older. On any given day, he would probably say he could largely exist without me. But on Sunday morning, Nathan was sure to tell me as if soliciting Mom's sympathy, “My elbows hurt.”

I, the Mom, said, “Yeah, you really banged them up.” Then, off he went to make himself four [ed. Yes, FOUR] bagels. Even though he was 17 and college was looming, I knew he’d always need me and, on any given day, even when his age was _insert-number-over-one_7, I’d still get to care for him like he was only 7 again, and I would always love that. ♥

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