But the truth is, it did matter to me and I was angry. Not at him, not at the special needs child who could not control his impulses, not at the young counsellors who were devoting their entire summer to these kids as volunteers. I was angry at myself.
I was angry at myself for putting my need to do more, to be better than I am, to give what isn't mine to give, to fill a void that will always be empty because I choose to keep it that way, ahead of what may be best for my son.
Throughout the evening, he stressed about the tooth, about my initial reaction (how I wish they had given me a head's up so that I could take it back) and what his dad would think. He pondered whether or not he would be able to crunch down on a hard candy ever again and asked me if the tooth could be fixed. I really don't know if it can. Yes, he frets, he worries, he makes mountains out of molehills, just like his mother.
Except I had to remain calm and nonchalant for his sake. I asked him if he wanted to go back to camp next week. He said yes, despite the fact that he had been kicked and bopped in the head and exposed to some serious meltdowns by the other campers this past week. Part of me is so proud of him. The other part, of course, wants to keep him safe and intact at his grandparents' next week.