"Cast"ing

About two years ago, I was on my way to see a movie with one of my girlfriends. While driving I received a strange call from Thad. He told me not to panic, that everything was okay, but needed to know when I would be home.

This isn't like Thad. I asked if things were all right, to which he assured me that things were "going to be okay with Tabby," "I shouldn't worry" and he would discuss details upon my return.

Are you FREAKING KIDDING ME? I'm a MOM, so of course I PANICKED!

He told me it wasn't necessary for me to come home. He had taken care of everything. I think there was a mention of a "funny story" somewhere around in there, so I felt okay enough to stay for the flick. Guilty, but okay.

When I got home I was greeted in this fashion: (or something very similar, as I made Tabby reenact the situation the next morning in order to get some photos of the drama).

Needless to say, I. Was. Furious.

I couldn't believe Thad hadn't deemed the situation "critical" enough for me to ditch "What Happens in Vegas," and be there when my daughter BROKE HER ARM!

As images of Tabby in the ER flashed rapidly through my mind, Tabby smiled at me, and as simple as peeling a banana, TOOK THE CAST OFF.

Yep. Slid the blasted thing from her arm and held it up for me to see.

I soon learned Thad had spent the evening cutting off a tube sock and wrapping it with yellow drywall tape. He had even made a special trip to Home Depot to purchase the goods. The sales people thought he was pretty hilarious.

Not me.

So the question is, why am I writing the story now? Why two years later? Trust me, it's not because it's taken me this long to forgive Thad, but rather because Tabby still wears the cast. Not only that, but she fabricates detailed stories to tell people that show concern for her ailment. It's like a grand theatrical production to her .

I usually don't mind this sort of play. It seemed harmless.

That is, until I allowed her wear to wear the thing to WalMart last week. Bad. Idea.

Before we even entered the store, I passed two **ahem** blessed-in-age-d women, who upon seeing Tabby's arm, shot me some pretty "interesting" looks.

Once inside, apparently Tabby's spotlight illuminated, and she began reciting her "lines" every time someone was within earshot.

"Oh! My arm hurts, Mom. It really, really hurts!" All that. She even went so far as to hang the cast over whatever side of the cart people passed on.

I ignored it for the most part, but after feeing the somewhat grimacing glances shot my way after I said, "Oh, Tabs. You'll be fine," I realized something.

What if people think I am insensitive to my kid's injury? What if they think I don't care? Or worse, what if they think I'm a mean enough mom to actually. . .

OH NO! It dawned on me so quickly, I found my overall tone toward her shift immediately.

"Oh, sweetie. You'll be okay."

Even when she asked for the third or fourth time for some unnecessary item, I felt compelled to nicely say "Sorry, Tabby. Maybe next time," instead of what I really wanted, and probably most often say: "Tabs. STOP."

Now I'm considering making it mandatory for her to wear it EVERY time we go out. The whole fear of being judged thing might work to her favor.

And keep my patience in check.