The Mediocre Mommy? Still?

When the boys were little, I frequently referred to myself as The Mediocre Mommy. I felt like (and still feel) that there's all this pressure on moms to be perfect little mommies, and that sounds exhausting. When other moms were throwing perfect themed birthday parties with monogrammed party favors, I was grabbing a cake at HEB on the day-of-the-birthday. 

There was one year we didn't get a plan together for Keaton's birthday (God bless teacher kids whose birthdays are early June), so we told him we had a huge surprise adventure planned for him. We got in the car and headed toward Houston while I googled "fun things for kids" from the passenger seat. Don't judge. It ended up being a pretty fun day. 

But this is not about birthdays. It's about Mediocre Mommies. 

In started with The Adventures of the Mediocre Mommy Then Red Ribbon Week at school. And then the time that I left Keaton alone with his very own pocket knife at the ripe young age of 8.

I am also a serious under-reactor. When I was a principal, the running joke in my office was that I believe Advil solves all problems. If one of my personal children wasn't feeling well or was hurt or something, my response was always "Take some Advil and give it a minute." Headache? Sniffles? Cut your arm off? Advil and time. You'll be fine. 

It mostly works. 

Fast forward to this week. Keaton came home from gym on Monday night complaining that his back was bothering him. He's a gymnast. He's hard on his body. Something is usually bothering him. Also, he's got a little touch of the dramatic. I know because when I was a teenager, I had a little touch of it, too. Hard to believe, right? Just ask my mom. 

Keaton: My back is kind of hurting. 

Me: Take some Advil.

Tuesday came. I got a text during the school day that his back was hurting. 

Me: Well, take it easy, and when you get home take some more Advil.

He went to gym like normal. 

Wednesday. 4:19 p.m. text from Keaton: Do I have to go to gym?

I called him. "You have to get your hours in. So you can go today or tomorrow, your choice."

He chose to go. Good on him. Tough kid. 

See, I want my kids to be tough. I want them to tough it out. Make choices and live with the consequences. Not think that mom is going to save them when they get in a bind. Understand the world doesn't revolve around them. I am 100% committed to NOT participating in snowflake culture. 

I've found this to be harder with teenagers than with little kids. Sometimes teenagers are dumb, and every once in a while it's okay to save them. But my job as a parent is to save them just barely enough. I worry about the mental health of teenagers these days, and I want my kids to know that I think they can do anything on their own if they are willing to put in the work. I also want them to know that I will go full-on-fight-to-the-death-crazy-mom if necessary. I want them to know I'm in their corner, but I also want them to want me to stay there while they handle their own business. 

The point of all this? Keaton's a little dramatic and I'm a purposeful underreactor. 

When I picked him up from his work out on Wednesday, he got in the truck and said, "Mom. Seriously. I think my back is broken."

Broken? Uh, okay. I told him I'd try to get him in to the doctor if it wasn't better in the morning. I may have made a comment to him about the healing powers of an x-ray because of that one time he got an x-ray, confirmed he wasn't seriously injured, and was magically healed. 

This morning the pain wasn't better. But I was busy. I planned to try to leave midday and take him to urgent care, but things got a little crazy at work and it was 5:00 before I knew it. The extra three or four hours didn't make much difference since we were on day three anyway. Finally, at 5:45, we saw the doctor.

They gave him some Advil (see? it's like I'm a doctor), and took him back for an x-ray. When he returned to the room they told him it would be about ten minutes for the results. We waited.

And waited.

And waited. 

It occurred to me that this was not a good sign. I was right.

The kid has a compression fracture in his back. He's worked out twice since it happened. Been to school every day. Taken finals. 

Oops. (I didn't actually say Oops. In my head, I said much more appropriate and inappropriate words.)

Once he got over the initial panic of what this might do to his competition season, he looked me dead in the eye and said, "Let it be known that I WAS RIGHT!  My back IS broken. Ha!" I think he enjoyed that a little too much.

For some reason, my first thought was, The Mediocre Mommy strikes again. 

But now I'm the Mediocre Mother to Tucker (if he really wants to make his point to me, he snaps, "mother"). To Keaton, I'm the Mediocre Momma (he likes to shout "MOMMA" with an emphasis on the "A" when he wants my undivided attention). 

I have teenagers now. It's like I've graduated from Mommy-dom but nothing too much has changed. 

And so we'll visit the ortho, pray our prayers that he heals quickly, and in the end he'll have a great story about how his crazy mom made him tough it out. 

And next time something happens maybe I'll prescribe two Advil.