BoomerGirl Diary

by Carol Starr Schneider

Over the weekend, my youngest son joined an elite club that typically recruits new members every summer, about a month before school starts. In the coming weeks, a few of his close friends will face similar induction.

The club rules must be rigidly obeyed: No running with scissors by the pool. No throwing patio chairs into the pool. No throwing slippery sunbathers slathered in SP 30 into the pool.

Oh, wait. Those are the rules I posted by our pool, the ones no one ever obeys.

The club rules I meant to share are as follows: No straws. No fun for at least 48 hours, maybe more. No excessive whining. No lashing out at the maternal figure in charge of recovery.

Teens who wish to apply for membership must be willing to forgo solid food until chewing ceases to be an Olympic event. Hamburgers, French fries and Oreos are strictly off-limits. Slushy milk shakes and weird blended concoctions must suffice. Other requirements include the ability to watch endless hours of mind-numbing television while balancing ice packs on inflated chipmunk cheeks. If a sibling laughs cruelly, ignore it. If a pain pill is offered, take it.

Not to brag, but Scotty is now the poster boy of this illustrious group. He got all four of his impacted wisdom teeth yanked right out of his tender teen gums and didn’t make me cry once. Of course, this wasn’t the case when our eldest had his out two years ago. He recovered much faster than I did from the ordeal. I wasn’t sure I could survive another go-round.

The procedure took over an hour. Naturally, I was a complete wreck, pacing back and forth in the waiting room. “It’s taking too long,” I told my husband, who sat there calmly, reading a John Grisham book.

“He’s fine,” Howard told me, based on no information whatsoever.

“How do you know that? No one’s come out and said anything,” I said.

“I just know he’s okay,” he said.

I went up to the front desk for the fifth time. “Any word yet on how my son’s doing?” I asked, straining to sound polite.

“Not since the last time you asked,” said the gal who’d had it with me.

I sat back down, eyeing her with thinly-veiled contempt. Fifteen minutes later, she took pity and let us see our second-born. We entered the room, watching Scotty slowly emerge from the anesthesia, expecting the requisite grogginess; maybe an expletive-ridden version of “Where am I?” just like his older brother had uttered so colorfully.

What we got instead was a slurred comedy routine. With gauze thickly embedded in his swollen cheeks, he started hurling one-liners at us.

“No extra-curricular activities,” he mumbled.

“What?” I asked, leaning in closer.

“No extra-curricular activities,” he repeated. I looked at Howard. “I think he said no extra-curricular activities.”

We doubled over with laughter. Out popped another gem. “I came in for a check up and look what happened.”

Tears ran down our regular-sized cheeks. The nurse came in to make sure we were okay. “He’s cracking jokes,” I reported.” “Oh, uh-huh,” she said, and left quickly, thinking we were nuts.

The jokes kept coming as we helped Scotty down the hall and into the elevator.

“Hurry up, I got a train to catch,” he said. He topped it off with, “I ordered a steak and all I got was this gauze.” The kid made us laugh the whole way home. Then he collapsed on the sofa.

Two days later, we watched nervously as he engaged in those afore-mentioned extra-curricular activities his doctor prohibited. His face still puffed up like a balloon, he played two basketball games and scored 16 points.

“See, I told you I could do it,” he said afterwards.

His dad and I exchanged looks. I guess every now and then it’s good to break the rules. Even when your parents – secretly packing back-up gauze and a map to the nearest emergency room – firmly believe it’s the worst idea ever.