It really irked me in general, but this time they had definitely added insult to injury. Literally.
I always stayed late after school to straighten my domain and re-shelve the library books that had been returned during the course of the day. Not to provide free babysitting services, and certainly not to referee boxing matches.
The mom/guilty party was a nice, very attractive blonde, who had her hands full with a slew of good-looking albeit exceptionally rambunctious children. However, those active youngsters were her responsibility, not mine. At least that was how I saw it.
So why was she forever unceremoniously dumping them in the library after the long school day was over and virtually all the other students and staff members had already gone home? Why was I subjected to this frequent imposition, not to mention the noise and mess it engendered?
This particular day was worse than usual, however. The injury, which I mentioned earlier, was inflicted on my youngest son by my nemesis’ youngest son as I stood helplessly by, a mute incredulous witness. Her little one was barely four at the time, roughly half the age of my boy, but a few times as wild. Seemingly, for no apparent reason, except perhaps boredom, he punched my son in the stomach…hard.
The reaction was immediate and agonizing. My child was instantly doubled-over in pain, groaning and hugging his abdomen pitifully. At first I thought they were just “horsing around,” but it soon became clear that this was not merely a case of undersize “guys will be guys.”
More worrisome still, my son continued clutching his stomach and even tearing up, long after the perpetrator had left. In fact, his dramatic display continued unabated throughout the entire car ride and for hours after we returned home. When I pulled up at the curb, all of the other kids scrambled up our steep driveway and disappeared into the house within moments. Menachem, however, sprawled out facedown on the driveway, protesting that he could not possibly make it up.
At that point, I was fairly convinced that my son was milking his battle scar to earn sympathy and/or avoid having to study and do homework. From the second we walked in, I was preoccupied with serving dinner, helping with homework (mostly barking at the kids to do it…) and initiating the requisite bedtime routine. After which I had to go out to run some errands. I called out a perfunctory reminder for Menachem to get moving, and then left the house.
When I later returned home, both my husband and my youngest son were nowhere to be seen.
“Where are Abba and Menachem?” I eventually asked my older ones, as I mindlessly unpacked and put away my groceries.
“Abba went to the emergency room with him…” came the shocking reply.
I already knew that the day’s activities would not qualify me for the “Mother of the Year Award,” but this was a new low even for me.
Fighting tears, I quickly drove to the hospital and met my better half in the waiting room. Our beautiful son was incredibly being prepped for an emergency appendectomy!
In between beating my chest “Al Cheit,” I sat in the waiting room, with copious tears streaming down my face, and davened my heart out for my wonderful son, whom I had so misjudged.
After what seemed like forever, the surgeon finally appeared with an update.
“Everything went well,” he shared. “We removed his appendix, but that was not what was causing the severe pain. It seems he had an undiagnosed cyst that could have burst at any time… The consequences could have been devastating had we not opened him up and discovered it…”