Just Like A Man

It’s been a rough two weeks for my poor boy, Ashton. As I’m writing this, I just realized that I rarely blog about him. I guess Atleigh just sucks everything up in her larger-than-life, look-at-me, can’t-live-with-me-can’t-legally-put-me-up-for-adoption-personality.

Ashton, as oldest, and the only boy, already has a hard life. Or so he says. He doesn’t have his own bathroom. He has to watch Tinkerbell and Princess movies. There is no one to race cars, play baseball, or pretend to be Superman with. Even the cat is a girl.

To top all that off, he’s inherited my analytical, introspective brain. So instead of accepting his fate like a trooper, he broods about it, grumps about it, and comes up with all types of hypotheses about how different things would be if 1.) Chloe had been a boy. 2.) Atleigh had been a boy. 3.) Paisley had been a boy. 4.) Mom went to work instead of Dad. 5.) He had his own room/bathroom/house.

I suppose all of this is neither here nor there, in reference to his rough two weeks. Just more hardships to add onto his 7 years. Two and a half weeks ago, Ashton broke his thumb playing volleyball at Awanas. With a BIG ball, as he has been faithful to inform me. I still haven’t figured out what kind of ball it was, if it wasn’t a real volleyball. I took him to urgent care, where they x-rayed, splinted, and wrapped said thumb. He missed two days of school.

Three days later, over the weekend, he came down with some sort of sinus infection. Although he wasn’t feeling terrible, school rules are strict when it comes to fevers. He missed another day of school.

This past Thursday, I took him to the pediatric orthopedist for a follow-up (he left school early), and it turns out, the splint and ace bandage hadn’t been doing a lick of good. Not that I was surprised- he is 7, and it’s impossible to keep him still, even on threat of a crippled left thumb. The splint gave him way too much wiggle room. So, they casted it in a brilliant shade of red, gave him some stickers, and sent him on his way. On Friday I sent him to school with a Sharpie, and he arrived home flushed with triumph at his instant Megastar status, and his cast so covered with tipsy lettered signatures that there was hardly any space left.

Saturday he started running a high fever. Sunday, when the fever was still hovering around 100º even with Motrin, I decided to take him back to urgent care, where they did chest x-rays and a flu test. The flu test was an ordeal in itself- if you’ve ever had one, imagine being 7 and completely unprepared. He broke my heart, telling me over and over that he “wasn’t crying, it just surprised him”, all while tears streamed down his face. They told me he had a “flu-like” virus, apparently a copycat that has been going around. It acts like the flu, feels like the flu, is contagious like the flu, and should be treated like the flu. Don’t ask me why they don’t just call it THE FLU. He'll miss at least two more days of school, or until he has been fever-free for 24 hours.

Anyway, we’re home now. Ashton is already asserting his manhood by growing up to be a terrible, whiny invalid. He writhes and cries, forces me to cajole, plead, and threaten until he takes his medicine, and generally acts in every respect just like a grown man of 32 (ahem, not that that’s his daddy’s age...).

Don’t get me wrong. I hate that he’s sick. He’s so pitiful, even in all his drama, that I just want to cuddle him (if he’d let me). But I’ve gotten to where I don’t know what’s worse- the high fever and the crying and squirming that goes with it, or the medicine that makes him feel just well enough to whine energetically.

I say all of this with the best humor I can muster. I love my boy, and I don't blame him for the way he's handling being sick. I suppose I should be proud of the great strides he’s taking towards maturity. After all, he’s acting just like a man.