Hyperbole and the single mom

There's been a decent delay between when the story I'm about to tell actually happened and now, when I'm finally getting a chance to post about it.  That's mainly due to the snow and the adventures it has caused in my life over the last few days, but that's a story for the next post.

On Friday, my mom, who quite conveniently works in the financial offices of my son's school, picked my son up for me.  I got out of an appointment late and wasn't going to make it to get him from late stay on time.

When I got to her office to retrieve him, I found him literally rolling on the floor professing an agonizing headache.  He would stand up when cajoled and then immediately drop back to the floor like a discarded rag doll, declaring that it hurt too badly for him to stand.

It was quite obvious, of course, that he was hamming it up a bit, but I figured he did at least have an authentic headache and told him we'd get him some Tylenol at home.

Still, it took no small amount of repeated requests and mounting frustration to get him to stay on his feet long enough to get to the car.  If I got him to stand up and then made the mistake of pausing for a moment to say a sentence or two to my mom, he'd crumple right back to the ground.

And this was not a case of simply sitting down on the floor with legs crossed and head moping.  No, no.  This was full-body lying down in the middle of the hallway, arms and legs flayed out as if he were poised to make a snow angel or something.

Based on the dramatic dives this boy was taking, it would seem he's destined for a life as an actor or maybe one of those soccer players who always manages to get a penalty called on his opponent by virtue of his feigned agony.

But we finally made it to the car and headed for home.  The ride proved therapeutic for my son, who gradually grew less interested in complaining about his headache and more interested in the toys that perpetually fill my back seat. 

By the time we got home, all mention of his earlier pain had dissipated completely.  He headed straight into the house -- he somehow mustered the strength to not collapse on the sidewalk on the way in -- and into his playroom where he dove right into some toys with nary a mention of his headache or the aforementioned Tylenol or anything.

I've long known that distraction was a key weapon in a parent's arsenal.  It can stave off tantrums, dispel awkward moments and alleviate disappointments, all by simply turning a kid's attention to something more interesting.

"Oh dear, it seems the playground has been overrun by snakes, lizards and mustached bullies and we can't go play.  ...Oh, look at that shiny thing over there!  Let's go see what it is." -- It works like a champ, I swear.

I learned from this latest incident, though, that distraction wields even more power than I originally realized, apparently packing a great anesthetic punch, able to cure incapacitating headaches in 3.2 seconds with the application of cool toys.