My son is officially a wimp.
He is rather a happy go lucky child as a rule, which is nice.
He rarely has a temper tantrum. The terrible twos passed him by. He was articulate and emotionally secure, and because he could tell everyone how he felt and was absolutely convinced that the world and its people worshipped him, he never really lost the plot. It was all too much effort when everyone was adoring you anyway.
Then there is the fact that he is, for the most part, ridiculously healthy. He sails through life with the odd cold, a random collection of nits and that’s about it.
He can also be rather charming, and is (in my opinion) quite fetching to look at. As a result he has lots of friends, and mostly doesn’t get thwarted except by me and Tallulah – and he’s used to that.
This sounds wonderful, and it is. He has an enviable life all things considered.
There is a down side though. He has absolutely no coping skills whatsoever when the odd moment of adversity comes his way.
He just goes totally to pieces.
This afternoon I managed to lose my handbag for a couple of hours – the handbag in which I had my purse and my phone.
It was, of course, at this point that school rang me because Oscar was having a spectacular melt down.
For some reason which I have yet to discover, he had found out that he had a small, pus filled spot on his knee. Just one spot, one one knee – and yet, as far as he was concerned, the world was officially ending, and he was going to die, horribly, painfully and dramatically.
And nobody could save him – certainly not the lovely Jodie, the poor, harrassed teaching assistant whose job it was to try and calm his hysterical gibberings.
I have always been present in the past, on the odd moments when the world ceases to spin on its axis for him, and I have seen how consumed by fear he gets by his sure and certain understanding of his own mortality. It can be a bit scary if you’re not used to it.
I think I owe her a bottle of wine at the very least.
As I was not answering my phone, and he wasn’t actually dying, it was left to the school to come up with plan B, which turned out to be most successful.
Plan B was the head teacher taking over as Dr Head Teacher and administering a plaster with great aplomb and medical skill.
He managed to choke out that he was very afraid that I would pop his spot for him using a needle, and he didn’t want this to happen at all.
Dr Head Teacher took all this in her stride and I wholeheartedly applaud her pragmatism in solving this problem:
Assuaged, he calmed down and garnered a special sticker for being ‘brave’.
I suspect it may have been awarded with a deep sense of irony.
By the time I picked him up he was cheerfully displaying his sticker and questioning me closely all the way home over the nature of the ‘cure’ I would administer.
Did I pop it with a needle?
I used tweezers.