As my son walked out of the bathroom this morning wrapped in blue terrycloth, I was inspired to sing him a little song to a Monkey’s tune…
Here comes my son
He’s my number one
I’m gonna pinch his buns
He ignored me, so I went into the kitchen to make some coffee with cinnamon. I decided to make him a microwavable sausage, egg and cheese biscuit for breakfast, since he is injured and therefore incapable of navigating himself to the refrigerator. He sprained his ankle running to a rock concert in Philadelphia on Saturday night. He explained that he and his buddies arrived a little late, so they sprinted from the train station. They didn’t want to miss the opening band. However, his foot hit a pothole and he did a Superman-- and his chest skidded across the pavement. He still managed a three hour concert in which he moshed with the crowd. Teenage determination is amazing.
On Sunday morning, he woke up with a golf ball sized left ankle. My husband took him to get x-rays, which relieved us from the idea of a break. But now I’m stuck driving the superklutz three blocks to school and back every day for at least a month—and he is missing out on playing volleyball with his dad, swimming in gym class and football with his boys. I explained all of that so I could tell you my lame joke…
I handed him his plate and explained that if he carried it to the table he’d be limpin’ with the Bizkit.
He looked at me with glazed up-til-2:00-am-to-watch-the-Eagles-game eyes. The birds disappointed Philly fans with a 21-20 loss after dominating most of the game. My husband watched them lose from club box seats. I was snoring with my daughter by half-time.