Friday night I stayed up later than I have in YEARS!
Because at around 11:30, as I was drifting off into slumber land the ear doctor's phone rang. It was our 18 year old basement dweller asking him to come out to the curb and carry her into the house. I guess she'd spent the night messing around with some friends at a gymnastic gym. I was really jealous that she'd been able to play in the big foam pit...until I saw her sad little face.
She told us, with tear-stained, mascara streaked cheeks that she'd twisted her ankle at the gym. And then she didn't want to seem like a wimp in front of her friends so she decided to play night games with them for a few hours until the pain was too much to bear and she asked someone to take her home.
By the time she got back to our house her ankle was swelling up like a grapefruit and the tell-tale signs of a sprained ankle reared their ugly head.
So we spent the wee hours of the night/morning calming her scared little heart, icing her squashy ankle and running for the border to get a #1 with baja blast.
Yuck! Have I ever mentioned that I really hate Taco Bell? I do. But I went to get it for her at 1:30 am because that's the only thing that brought even a hint of a smile to her sad, pathetic little eyes.
At 2 am as I rolled between the sheets I thought of the taste of parenting the ear doctor and I just had. We both reacted calmly; we got her ice, and ace bandage and some comfort food.
Oh, and we called my parents for advice in the middle of the night.
Awesome...we're totally ready, right?