Kids

“Kids…you know I love ‘em!”

On the lighter side this month...

There is a scene from the 60's movie "Bye, Bye Birdie", where Paul Lynde is trying to convince himself that he can cope with his teenagers. I can hear him even now in his whining, nasally voice saying, "Kids, you know I love 'em", then he adds his little he he he, like he's trying to convince himself.

Children too are a gift from Adonai; the fruit of the womb is a reward. (Psalm 127:3, CJB)

In the '80's I found myself in the same frame of mind as Mr. Lynde in the movie. Living in Tacoma, Washington, had its moments. I am talking about weird, different, exciting, and challenging moments. We lived in an older home in an eclectic neighborhood that bordered on scary. The area looked fairly decent, but some of the kids that walked our streets could put the fear of God in you with a mere look.

I remember mid-summer one year when I had one of those interesting moments. My husband, M.C., was somewhere with our youngest son Nathan. Our fifteen-year-old son Ross was out shooting hoops. I was home alone when someone started beating on the front door. I peeked through the door window and saw a tall young man whom I did not recognize. Being incredibly brave (NOT), I yelled through the door.

“Yea?"

"Do you have a son?" he yelled in my direction through the closed door.

"Maybe," I answered.

He again yelled, “Well, do you have a son named Ross?"

Entreating I again yelled, “Who wants to know?"

"Look lady," he pleaded, "all I know is a guy named Ross broke his foot playing b-ball, and he told me to get his mom at this address!"

Of course, the door flew open, and I thanked him profusely. I ran to the school knowing that there was probably no real problem but feeling guilty for the interrogation of this good Samaritan.

Ross seemed to have a lot of health problems. So, unless his color is totally drained from his face, his breathing is shallow, or I see blood, there is no problem.

I ran to the school to find him sitting with his basketball, very indignant because it had taken me so long to come to his rescue.

“What's up?" I called out walking in his direction.

“What's up?" he yelled back. "Man, Mom! I think I broke my foot, and I am in excruciating pain!!!"

Right, I thought to myself. Color is good, he is breathing okay, and not one drop of blood. Puleeeez!

"Okay buddy," I said in my chirpy mommy voice, “Why don't we get home and prop Mr. Foot up on the 'ol couch."

“What?" he whined indignantly, "I c-a-n-'t walk, Muthhher."

Uh oh. He was taking control or at least trying to take control. I had to maintain my position as a parent.

"Okay, Mr. Man," I quipped, “Why don't you just hop home, and you can dribble the ball on the way."

Well, there you have it. I and my lanky, hopping, ball-dribbling, whining son were on our way home. It was not too bad - it was all downhill, and the ball only got away from him once. I had him sit in our recliner and watch television until his dad came home. When M.C. arrived, I told him the story and said it was nothing and that it would be better by morning.

“Wellllllll, I don't know." M.C. said "It could be broken. Maybe I should just run him to the emergency room to make sure."

"Run him to the emergency room?!" I whined, (now it was my turn) "No one just runs to the emergency room. No way! I mean, unless it is a major break or something, one just doesn't run to the emergency room. After all, it's $300 just to walk through the ER door! I could run to Nordstrom for $300!

My plea did not work. Out to the car, Ross hopped, and away they drove with me chasing the car and yelling, "There better be a real problem!"

Two hours later they returned. As I opened the door to greet my “pretender” I was overwhelmed by the size of the cast on his foot.

Ahhhhhhh" I cried, "My poor baby! You really did hurt your foot!”

“Helll-0000!" Ross says in sticky sarcasm, “I ba-roke my ankle, thank you. And thank you also for hopping me home, Mom."

Bad Mother. Baaad Mother! This kept going through my head and I felt like a real creep. Well, I gave him all the ice cream a 15-year-old “hollow-legged” pathetic teen could bear and promised to believe him the next time.

The following morning my husband and I were preparing to go to the church office, and I gave serious instructions for the day to our two guys.

"NO BASKETBALL!!" I emphasized it over and over. “You are NOT to play with that cast on your foot! That is all I need is for you to break the cast! Comprende? That is all I need is for you to break the cast!"

“Yes Ma’am", Nate responded while shooting a side glance at his sibling. “You got it, Mom!", Ross joined in, smiling and hopping around the kitchen.

I felt bad for them. Our daughter had her basketball goal set up in the backyard, and the guys were addicted. I had to nag all morning to make the point, and I felt it did the trick. I was secure.

After a couple of hours at the office, we received the call:

"Mom", Nate said his voice shaking "you need to come home."

"He broke the cast, didn't he?!" I demanded.

Poor Nate. He was the baby and always took the stress for every situation the two boys incurred. We drove straight home, and I was the first one through the door.

“Where is he?!" I demanded.

Then I saw him, coming to me, on his knees!

“Now Mom," he pleaded, “it is not what you think."

"Not what I think?!" I returned, “You broke your cast, didn't you? You just had to play ball, and you broke your cast!".

"No ma’am," he said sliding his foot around to show me an unscathed cast. "See?"

“Wow! Ok, what's the deal?" I quizzed.

“Well, you were sorta right," he began. "I did play basketball." Then he gingerly slid the other foot out. "But I did not break the cast. I broke my other foot trying to save the cast when I came down from a shot."

The rest of the summer was spent with a cast on both feet and no b-ball. Kids. You know I love 'em. Ross's basketball adventures continued to keep us on our toes and in the hospital.

The spring following his double-cast episode, the boys began playing basketball at the local Boys Club. They went with a group of guys from our church, and it seemed well-chaperoned and regulated. Again, I was secure. (Right!) About an hour after Ross and Nate were gone, we received the "call". It was from the director of the club. As it happened, one of their "rougher" boys sucker-punched Ross during a game and knocked Ross out cold. Of course, the director assumed full responsibility to include medical treatment. Well, M.C. went to take care of the matter and returned after a trip to the local ER.

“How is he?" I asked as M.C. came through the door with Ross, a.k.a. "His Royal Lankiness".

"Oh, he’s ok. Just a bump on the head." M.C. tossed off the remark like it was no big deal.

(I have always called M.C. "the observer". He was so astute when it came to details (not!). Like the time he sat across from me for over an hour during dinner at an incredible restaurant, never noticing the false eyelash dangling from my eyebrow! We just happened to be with another couple whom I had only met that night. When I finally went to the restroom and saw myself, I was mortified! My new acquaintance told me that she had thought it was a scar! AGHHHH)

So, I felt under the circumstances I better cut to the chase. I asked Ross, “How ya feelin', son?

"Grrreat!" He answered, with his incredible smile flashing. “Wow, Mom!" he continued, as he looked around the kitchen at several stacked boxes, "Are we moving?"

Hmmm, interesting. We had been packing for a couple of weeks for our move to the parsonage, and there had been boxes everywhere for days.

“Why yes, son", I told him nervously, “We are moving into the parsonage."

“Whooooooa! Cool!" he almost yelled. Then looking down at his T­ shirt, he pulled it away from himself and exclaimed, "Cool shirt! When did I get this?"

"Uhhhhhhh", I stammered, "a month ago."

"Allll rrrrright!" he yelled with obvious glee.

Hmmm. Curiouser and curiouser. Things were taking a turn for the bizarre.

"Listen Ross", I began, “What month is this?"

"Its March, Mom, don't you know?" he answered sincerely. It was actually May!

"Ok" I continued, “What happened to you tonight?"

"I played b-ball, and Dad brought me home." He answered me like I was whacked, but the kid had no clue.

"0hhhh-K Ross" I ordered, "Let's go – we are going back to the hospital!"

"Hospital? What for? Why?" he whined.

"Because" I stressed, "First of all it's May, not March!"

“Whoaaaaa!" Ross replied eagerly.

"Second, we've been moving for over a month!" I continued.

“Wow!" Ross squealed as if every revelation was incredibly cool and exciting.

"Finally", I said in total disbelief, "you were hit in the head playing basketball and have just returned home from a visit to the ER."

"Su-uu-perrrr!" Ross said this with the biggest smile on his face as if this was the best adventure he had ever experienced!

Into the car we went. Back to the ER! When we arrived the attending physician was surprised to see Ross returning so soon. I explained the situation and they gave Ross a C.A.T. scan. We waited in an examination cubicle and Ross fell immediately asleep. It was like a two-minute nap when he woke up and asked, “Where am I?"

"In the hospital" I replied.

“Why?" he asked.

Tears filled my eyes. "Poor kid," I began. "You were hit in the head while playing basketball and have a very bad concussion."

“WOW!" He returned, then looking at his T-shirt he said, "Cool shirt! Where did I get this?"

I told him and he closed his eyes again for another two-minute nap. Poor baby, I thought as I brushed his hair back with my hand. His eyes opened again. And again, he began, “Where am I?"

This time I was ready and began with a faster pace: “You're in the hospital, you had an accident, and you were hit in the head.”

“WOW!" he yelled and continued, "Look at this T-shirt!" I explained the T-shirt.

Again, he closed his eyes, and again two minutes later he would begin again. This continued no less than three more times. I was beginning to lose it. I contemplated putting a pillow over his head during one nap time, but of course, I repented. And again, he awoke echoing the same queries. This ordeal was driving me crazy, but I was not the only one affected. Before Ross could open his eyes again for a repeat performance, the Doctor stepped into our cubicle and thrust a clipboard into my hands saying, “Next time he wakes up have him read this." It was an entire dialogue that had been repeated over and over. Every question had the answer written next to it.

Ross' eyes opened. Before he could say one thing, I thrust the clipboard into his hands and commanded, "READ!" He looked at the clipboard and read it as if it was a Stephen King novel.

Throughout the ER. Everyone heard him exclaiming:

"Allll Righht! WOW! Cooool! Whoa.a.a.a!" Every exclamation was followed by a pause as he read each sentence.

We learned that Ross was suffering from a condition called globular amnesia. It was a common sports-related injury (I guess a sucker punch falls into the area of team sports). It is a temporary situation and thank God, it has no permanent damage to the brain.

Finally, we got Ross home and tucked into bed. Whenever he asked a question, everyone would just yell, “READ!"

The next morning M.C. and Nate went their way, and I was alone with Mr. WOW, Cool, Whoa! It was then that I decided to try an experiment on him. With our daughter away at college I was home alone with three sports-insane guys. I hate TV sports. So, I decided to gain some balance in this group’s mentality.

"Ross," I began, "you know honey, it might help you if I shared some things with you. I mean, it may aid in the healing process of your memory."

"Sure Mom." He was a ready target.

My plan was to reprogram him. "Listen, son," I said softly "you love Italian food!" I thought that I would use the old 'Oreo method'. Something negative is sandwiched by two positives. Only the bad memory would be sports.

“Yea" he chimed in, "I think I know that."

“Wonderful!" I responded. This was going to be a piece of cake I only had to state the other two “memories” very fast. Just dive in with it before he could grasp all of it and then let it sink in.

"Soooo... " I began again, "You love Italian food, hate TV sports, and love playing basketball." Whew - I said it so fast my tongue almost caught fire.

I could see his mind whirring around like an electric Rolodex. Click, click, click, stooooooop!

"Uh Mom?" he said softly, "are you sure about the TV sports part?"

Uh oh. Keep cool. I repeated this over in my mind and tried to appear calm.

"Of course, baby." I was giving this my bravest effort, “You cannot stand TV sports." I said this in my most pathetic whiney voice.

He looked at me in total shock. It was as if I had asked him to close his eyes and without warning yanked out one of his fingernails. I began to think that it was too much. As hard as he tried, the idea of no TV sports could not fit into the cogs of his mind. Suddenly, his eyes began to roll upwards, his hands were shaking, and drool came from the corners of his mouth. He was perspiring profusely, and the color began to fade from his face.

"Wait!" I cried, “Wait!!! I lied, I lied......you LOVE TV sports, I lied, I lied, I lied......." I continued as my sobbing voice trailed off.

He slowly regained composure, laid down on the couch, and reached for the remote control.

“Thanks, Mom" he whimpered as he surfed for ESPN, "I tried to believe, but it just didn't compute."

We hugged. I left him to his beloved TV sports and slowly left the room.

Somehow things always turn out like this.

Kids – enjoy them. They are a gift from God, and we have them so briefly to train to become adults. I hope you enjoyed my diary of memories with my b-ball-loving son.

Love from my heart,

nanC

Nancy Cohen is the Director of Women's Ministries at Apple of His Eye

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