So back when the boy child and I lived in the big city, he played soccer in a neighbourhood league. We lived in a fairly affluent area - I was the token poor person - and the kids he played with were.... I don't want to say spoiled, but certainly indulged. Pampered, even.
If one of those darling children should look even the slightest bit strained during a practice, mummy or daddy would be on the cell phone, dialing up a personal massage therapist and ordering the emergency air ambulance for an immediate evacuation to the nearest urgent care centre. Dear little Madison or Lauren or child-with-an-oddly-spelled-first-name would be sitting on the grass, out of breath, while her parents (who had long since lost the ability to use the first person singular) would be bellowing on about how their precious child's future as a professional soccer player/Supreme Court judge/nuclear physicist would be damaged beyond repair by this injury, and could we please get the plastic surgeon on the line right away?
Out here in the sticks, things are different.
The other day a kid on the boy child's team was sitting in the middle of the field crying. His mother, from the sidelines, bellowed "Are you bleeding?" to which junior, between sobs, shook his head.
"Get up then!" his mom shouted. "You're blocking the game!"
Me? I grinned to myself and went back to my knitting. (And when the boy child was bleeding later on, the coach slapped a dirty band aid on him and offered to amputate if necessary - the rusty saw was just behind the seat in the truck.)
I like it out here.