I am not generally a coddler. Never have been. Just isn't in my nature to coddle. It's, I think, simultaneously one of my greatest strengths and one of my most glaring personality flaws. So here's what happened:
Bren stepped on a tack.
Do I know why he was wandering the house after midnight? Not really, aside from having an overnight guest, which prohibits an 11 year old boy from bedding down on his normal schedule. Do I know why there was a tack in the floor? NO, can't say I do.
What I do know is that the generally accepted practice when such a thing happens is to remove said tack. It's just, ya know, what's got to be done. Unfortunately, in the mind of a sleep deprived, over-tired and grumpy 11 year old boy, it is akin to evil, very close, in fact, to torture. And it tends to evoke a deep sense of outrage - so deep that it is impossible to hold at bay, and is most often expressed with particularly unattractive faces, and copious tears.
Tears, for an 11 yr old boy with an overnight friend, are unacceptable. Humiliating even - which leads to further outrage, in addition to the humiliation. Really not a good combination, adding all that insult to that injury...
So my son stepped on a tack, I pulled it out. He is physically fine. Unfortunately, I think he hates me, and may be emotionally scarred for life. And yet, even that didn't hit my coddle switch. No, I am an evil mother. My response was, and I quote, "Well what the hell'd ya think I was gonna do!? Leave it in there? And then what, have special shoes designed that would accommodate a 1/2 inch long fuchsia push pin in the bottom of your foot? Good lord boy, yer not even bleeding, suck it up!"
Unless some cleaning, ointment, and a band aid constitute coddling? I am such a bad bad mother. No June Cleaver in this house.