Shoot me now.

So the tall boy is all about the fabulous Bulldawgs varsity lacrosse team -- he's a defenseman, which means he plays "long stick." Since the tall boy is, as you will have surmised, tall, this is not a problem for him. Playing defenseman this year has also meant that the tall boy tends to play the entire game; not that many guys play long stick.

The tall boy loves everything about lacrosse: the thrill of streaking down the field; the teamwork and strategy; and frankly, the violence of the game -- all of these make him happy. As you may remember I was a little skittish about him playing this season. People! Doctors removed part of the child's lung six months ago! But the tall boy was absolutely adamant that he would play during his senior year, and he convinced his doctors to work with him. They all ganged up on me and told me I was being one of those annoying, crazy worry-moms. Crazy worry-moms are the worst. My only defense is to remind everyone -- they hit each other in the chest with sticks. Hard.

tangent: When the tall boy was starting out in the sport, his first coach tried really hard to break these (young) boys of their "Stop the game because I got an owie" fearfulness. He gave out coveted red stickers for the boys to wear proudly on their helmets any time they bled.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when the husband called on the way home from the game the other night.

"How was the game?" I asked him.

"It was a great game! A little frustrating for the tall boy because they lost, but we had a great time."

"Fabulous! Are you guys hungry?" The tall boy is always hungry so this was totally a ridiculous question.

"Well . . . . "

When the husband starts a sentence this way, what comes next is never happy-making.

Half an hour later, the tall boy and I had taken our usual seats in the waiting room at the hospital E.R. A lacrosse stick blow to the wrist, followed shortly by a fall on the same wrist, were enough to make the team trainer frown, and send us for x-rays.

tangent: Can I just say that the tall boy has received enough radiation -- through x-rays and CAT scans -- in the past two years that if he is able to parent father a child with fewer than two heads, I will sing my praise to the Lord.

Tall boy aficionados know to keep their eyes peeled for those texting fingers . . . .

. . . and my geeky athlete will always be able to produce a book. This one looks so light and fun -- a perfect beach read!

When it was all over, we came home with a wrist brace and a referral to the quasi-sexy orthopedic doctor. The tall boy is completely cranky because a) this hospital adventure has gotten him out of absolutely no academic commitments, and b) he has been benched until the sexy doctor gives the all-clear.

Poor tall boy!