My son walked into a chair Friday night and stubbed his toe. It hurt. A lot.
He almost swore a word that would earn a bar of soap in his mouth, adding a few letters to change it at the last syllable. After wrapping a bag of frozen vegetables to his foot for an hour it wasn't hurting so much, and he fell asleep on the couch.
So on Saturday when he was hobbling around, going all drama king about his foot hurting, I told him to suck it up. It's just a stubbed toe for cripes sake. Of course it hurts. It's supposed to hurt when you smash a moving force into a stationary object.
No complaints from him the rest of the day. And none on Sunday morning.
So when I looked at his toe Sunday afternoon and saw it was black underneath, I, of course, finished his word without changing the last syllable and took him to the German hospital emergency room where, after a four hour wait, the doctor promptly confirmed that I am the world's worst mother.
Because his toe is broken.
As broken, unfortunately, as the lousy rewrite I am currently working on...which could use some moving force smashing into the stationary object.
See, I'm at that magic draft where you think you can't possible learn anything else about your story and then: Wham! Bam! Thank you, ma'am. Something bops you upside the head and you suddenly have new eyes.
Eyes which, fortunately, can see right through to the black underside that needs fixing. Immediately. Without several more days of pain and suffering.
So today, I proudly wear the World's Worst Mother badge while both my son and my story hobble around, reminding me they needed fixing in the first place.