ouch!

Yesterday Luke dropped a hefty brick on his bare big toe. Ouch! His toenail turned black immediately. I asked if he could wiggle his toe, and he did, so--whew, no broken bones. "I need a Band-aid! Lots and lots of Band-aids!" he wailed. We went in and sat on the couch for the next hour until he calmed down. The rest of the evening, he was his usual perky self.

Then, at 9:30 last night, Luke woke up crying and writhing in pain. "My toe still hurts!" he cried. We sat on the couch again and watched tv, while I first called Mom (Curt's out of town), then my doctor. After a double-dose of Tylenol, he felt better. The poor guy. You just know how bad it hurts. At the height of it, I had that awful feeling of not being able to help. The last time I had that feeling, he pulled his elbow out of the socket (a big, big ouch!) and to go to the doctor. I've never smashed anything, but just the thought of it makes me weak in the knees. Being a mom kinda forces you to get over initial gross-out reactions.

All's well this morning. The toe looks pretty rough, but Luke said, "It's all better!"

Pinehurst

Yesterday we all went to Pinehurst, a golfing mecca about an hour from Raleigh. Curt had some work to do at the Carolina Inn there, and we tagged along. The boys had fun running up and down the long hallways, playing on the perfect green lawns, and generally living it up. The 4-star hotel has endless lines of chandeliers, big bowls of red apples, and jacket-required dining rooms. And as you might imagine, a very white, upper-class clientele with a not-so-white hotel staff.

The boys and I stayed up late playing "hide the shampoo" and eating junk food. (Or rather, what I thought was junk food but turned out to be sugar-free jellybeans. They were more like wax lips, without the fun juicy stuff.) The next morning we went to the dining room for breakfast. The previous night Curt said the room was 95% full of white men gaffawing, drinking and doing business. Men go there to golf and do business, something I just can't get a handle on. Curt doesn't golf, so he couldn't go golfing with the rest of the men (hanging around on the golf course is bad form). If you don't golf, you're out. It's exclusionary, and I just can't believe this is still the way "the men" do business.

Anyway--here we were having a nice breakfast at the dining room. An older African-American man named Bob gently played the piano. Luke's ears perked up. We went over several times to look. The man graciously waved, smiled, and welcomed us to come over. Luke told him he was learning to play violin.

"Suzuki?" the man asked. (That's the kind of music lessons Luke is taking.)
"Yes," we said.
"You must be very good. Some day I'd like to hear you play me a song," Bob said.
"Ok!" Luke smiled. "When you come over to my house, we can play a beautiful song together."
"I'd like that," said Bob.

We talked a bit more about Luke's violin, all while Bob played a jazzy "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." The man was so kind, and made such a connection with us in just that quick exchange.

I'm having a hard time expressing how I felt. It's a mix of enjoyment (it is a nice hotel, after all) and guilt. Guilty for what, being white? Being wealthy enough to stay there? I wanted to explain it was on the company tab, but why? I noticed myself going out of my way to say thanks to everybody who waited us. Did other people notice the dichotomy, I wondered? Or maybe it's been this way for so long here that this is the status quo.

As we walked out of the dining room Curt said he had goosebumps and I was feeling my eyes getting teary. Bob knew about a relatively obscure form of music training, obviously had been a muscian for most of his life, and was playing for an all-white crowd on an all-black staff. I got the feeling that if we really did invite him to come over, he would come. That would be so nice.