Apparently when you’re a boy, a perfectly normal evening activity is to beat up another boy for fun and sport. Of course being one of those pink wearing, sweet-smelling, book-reading girly girls I was not aware of this until it was presented to me in 3D living-room color, by the small men I incubated in my womb. I really should have known even then, when the first one pummeled me right up until the moment of birth.
My second child was so still that I continually made sure he was alive by listening to the heartbeat in the fetal monitor that had been procured somewhere, and then mysteriously disappeared. There’s probably an APP for that now, my pregnancies were so mid-2000’s. It was one day when I was watching the Clint Eastwood directed boxing movie, “Million Dollar Baby” that the fetus started boxing, letting me know that he was alive and ready to rumble. My second son is rather impressionable.
A damper has been put on the nightly beatings because the younger, suggestible fighter has an eye issue. It started yesterday when I got that call from the school nurse that any parent dreads. There is no good news, just the fact that she’s calling means your day is ruined. I know you’re supposed to be selfless and not think about a potentially disastrous call about your kids’ health in terms of “your day” but I never said I was selfless. I never even implied it.
Of course your first thought is for the kid, but once it’s established that the issue is not a mortal one, you’re expected to drop everything and take the child for immediate medical care. In this case the issue was a feeling of “something in the eye,” even after numerous eye baths. My child was observed squinting in the hallways, and brought in to the sick bay, where it was established that I’m a bad parent. Just kidding! I did know about the eye last night, but he showed no indication of any more trouble, and it was his father who took him to school, Your Honor.
Now things had progressed and either he would be outfitted with a natty pirate eye patch, or we would be heading to the doctor. It emerged after a fascinating series of ultraviolet lights and orange dyes, that the child had somehow acquired a scratched cornea. Isn’t that fancy? I was jealous, I’ve never had one. Apparently when my baby A-Rod was playing Little League yesterday, a foreign body flew into his eye and somehow flew out, but not before leaving a little souvenir. He was most excited about the doctor turning his eyelid inside out, only because he wasn’t the one who actually had to see that shit. What a horror-show.
So after the older brother poked him in the eye by accident in the car on the ride home, and in return he kicked said brother in the head (with his shoes on, and not by accident) causing brother to cry, and me to ban all fighting for the night. They seem absorbed in their electronics currently, and have forgotten all about this incident as only brothers can. And I’m counting down the time till they go to bed… so I can watch a violent movie that may not approach the real life violence I witness daily.