Kathleen McCall:
Occasional�� Muse�

2001-10-08 - 11:03 a.m.

Drama Queen

Youngest Daughter had an accident on her scooter the other day. I wasn't outside to see it, but Older Daughter ran in, saying, "She's hurt", and of course with jolt of Momadrenaline I dropped the dishtowel and hauled ass outside to administer aid.

And she WAS hurt. Had a big ol patch of road rash on her ankle, with a ton of driveway dirt decoration. Couldn't tell where the skin was gone and where it was just asphalt; couldn't get a coherent answer out of her, because she was SCREAMING, nor out of older sister who was primarily concerned with making sure I understood whose fault the whole thing wasn't.

You know, I just don't know what to DO with all that trauma and drama. Me, I've always attended the Church of Stoic, where you get points for compressing your lips and saying, "No, I'm fine, really." So while I want to respect her right to announce loudly that she's dying of a skinned ankle, I also have the smothered impulse to smack her, or tell her, "Oh, shut UP, it's nothing."

(My mother always said, "You think THAT hurts - wait til the HEAD comes through." Of course, I never knew what she meant as a child, but now I do. She's right, too.)

But now I have a wounded filthy child, and I think this dirt must come off the ankle. I am always deciding what is really necessary, because this child is terrorized by BandAids, and Bactine - she should have been around when we had Iodine, eh? - and I don't force treatment unless I think it's really necessary. But I need this ankle cleaned up.

So I give her choices. We can immerse the leg, or the entire child. We can use a washcloth, wielded by me OR by her. We can use the shower hose. Whatever. (Please, child, stop screaming.)

No, no no no no no it will hurt! Yes; probably will. A little bit. Can't lie to you. But it has to be done.

(Once years ago, she got a huge honkin redwood splinter in her hand. It HAD to come out; it was not the optional type of splinter at all. We spent fifteen minutes in that small shriek-filled bathroom, me unable to come to grips with the responsibility of overpowering my child, she unable to muster the adult courage to hold still; and I finally said, "Do you just want me to DO IT?" And she nodded, and I grabbed her and pinned her and pulled the splinter out while she screamed, and so it was done, with great relief to us both.)

I'm a good comforter; I am, really. I have a great kid-lap and I do good hugs and I can sing soothingly and I'm a good listener. But I have a flaw. I cannot help you if you are screaming in my ear. Can't do it. Makes me grind my teeth and wince and have desperate thoughts of escape. (Please, please, child, just STOP.)

So I'm telling her it will hurt a little bit to wash the ankle, and all the time I know it will hurt a LOT, a real lot, it will KILL, because that is how this child sees pain, I already know that applying Neosporin to UNBROKEN skin is agony to this child, but I am justifying the means by the end - get the damned thing washed, she'll live.

So she climbs screaming into the tub, holding the damaged ankle out of the water, and sits down, still without approaching the water with the ankle; it's a delicate feat of grace, which I spoil by grabbing the leg unceremoniously and dunking it. And she screams louder.

At this point you MUST be with me on this, right? MUST be thinking, "Oh Jesus, get over it, Drama Queen," but tell me - how does one get the child over it? Like smacking a child to get it to stop crying, getting angry with a hurt kid to get her to calm down does no good at all.

I grabbed the first straw that floated though my scream-shredded brain. "Well, if YOU can't wash it, and you can't let ME wash it, then I suppose we will have to go over to the Urgent Care Center and ask THEM to wash it." Sheeeit. Mother reduced to threats. Brazelton hangs head in shame.

It worked.

Surprisingly small amount of actual damage, under all the road dirt. In spite of all I know of this child, I still somehow expected to see something gory, based on the spectacular floor show. But it was at the "I-forget-which-leg-I'm-supposed-to-limp-on" level. Which, in succeeding days, she has. Got out of P.E. one day; campaigned to be out of school altogether, since it was such agony to put socks and shoes on. Lost that campaign.

Theda Bara. I have given birth to Theda Bara. I am afraid this can only get worse; if I remember correctly, teen hormones heighten drama.

It doesn't STOP after the head comes through, does it?

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