Latest column: Hurt Stories

Last week my husband, Jay, skewered his arm with a fishing spear. It wasn’t an injury of epic proportions — but it was pretty gross. He’s been delighting our boys with the account of how “a bunch of arm guts” gushed out of the hole when he pulled the spear out.

We’re used to that at my house. Gross injuries… and, more frequently, play-by-play stories of gross injuries.

The tales behind Jay’s scars have been told and retold so many times at our house that they’re legend.

The boys gather ‘round, eyes wide with anticipation, as if it’s the first time they’ve heard about the time an 11-year-old Jay ground a hole into his elbow while using his arm as a bike brake and -- wait for it -- they HAD TO SCRUB IT OUT WITH A TOOTHBRUSH!

More often than not, replays of these long-healed injuries take place at the dinner table. Yes, that’s right — stories of blood and gore are the soundtrack of my all-male-but-me family dinners.

By the time we’ve circled the table answering the perfunctory, “What was your favorite part of the day?”, the kids dive into: “Tell us about the time you were on your bike and the road came up and hit you in the face and your eyebrow was hanging down in front of your eyeball!”

And, of course, Jay obliges. Revels in every gory detail. Retells it as if it’s the first time he’s told the story. A captive audience, they hang on every word — nodding and squealing and screaming in simultaneous horror and delight.

Even my seven-year-old’s friends know the stories. “Mr. Koski,” they say when they come over to play, “Tell me about the time you got bit by a giraffe” or “Did you really get your arm stuck in that revolving door?”

But the crème de la crème of the “hurt stories,” as we call them, Jay only pulls out when we’re visiting his mother. “Did I ever tell you boys,” he begins, a mischievous smile dancing on his lips, “about the time Grandma broke my leg?”

“Oh Jay,” she admonishes. “I did not….”

Her protests just egg him on as the boys stare, open-mouthed in anticipation:
“Grandma put me in the bike seat on the back of her bike when I was just a wee little guy — no helmet, mind you — and my poor little baby leg got caught in the spokes.”

This story even has props. He keeps the tiny, thigh-high cast in his office. Someday he plans to make a lamp out of it.

Once in awhile, my boys try to involve me in the conversation. “Do you have any hurt stories, mom?” they’ll ask.

I think long and hard, of course. I want to be part of the game. I want to be looked at like the hero I know I am.

“I sprained my little toe playing kickball once,” I offer. “My mom carried me on her shoulders to the clinic for an X-ray.”

“Oh. (Blank-faced pause.) Daddy, tell us about the time you got knocked out three times on your family vacation to California.”

He launches into the one that even makes me laugh. “Well first, I got kicked by that horse. And, then, I ran right into that picnic table — the one that was level with my forehead….”