Crying Wolf

Reagan has been in a mood today.  She threw a temper tantrum at the soccer field, and earned herself a time out in the car. She caused a spectacle at the outhouse, insisting that she was going to FALL IN!  MOM!  HELP!  I CAN'T GO POTTY BECAUSE I WILL FALL IN! (Of course, she'd already gone #1 and #2 not 15 minutes prior to this.  She just wanted me to leave the game and devote my attention to her.  Once in time out, she miraculously did not need to use the restroom at all).   She started crying on the floor of Culver's because she wanted a TOY instead of ICE CREAM and there are no toys at Culver's. She slid down onto the floor of the restaurant because it's just TOO. MUCH. CHICKEN for one little girl to eat.   She was screaming at the top of her lungs while in the shower, and I thought she was being burned by the water, so came running at break-neck speed.  Nope.  She thought she saw a spider, but upon closer inspection.  No spider.  She lightly shut her fingers in the door and screamed for 45 minutes.   Her boots hurt her ankles.  HELP!  I CAN'T WALK!  MY BOOTS HURT MY ANKLES!  She has been whiny and crying for much of the day, and quite frankly not all that pleasant to be around.  EVERYTHING has been an emergency in Reagan world today, and I had had enough. 

So, you can understand why I might not have jumped up right away when she started crying for the 578th time today, this time because she tripped over a toy in her bedroom.

"MOM!  HELP!  I CAN'T WALK!  MY LEG IS TWISTED!"  Her brother went to go check on her, and decided that she was being overdramatic.  As I was busy drying my hair after my shower, I decided that my immediate attention was not warranted. 

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM!"
"Reagan, I will be in after my hair is dry to check on you.  I'm almost done."  I figured that by waiting a few minutes she would discover that, hey!  She really is just fine! and be bored with the dramatics by the time I was done.  Not so.  Ten minutes later, when I finally finished, she was still crying.  So I decided to check on her.

There she was on the floor, with genuine tears, holding her knee.  It had dislocated.  I know this, because this is a common occurrence in our house.  The boys (Quinn especially) have repeatedly dislocated their knees.  It's not pretty, and I have to pop them back into place - a procedure that is highly painful, but lasts only a few seconds.  The boys are stoic and have a high pain tolerance. Reagan, not so much.  She was freaking out, and would NOT let me touch her leg.  I, "Mom the schmuck" who let her daughter lie on the floor with a dislocated knee while she blew her hair dry, had to bring in reinforcements.

Quinn was not enough help, even though he vouched for the fact that the procedure would be over quick if she just let me do it.  Rob, with his queasy stomach, had to hold Reagan down for me.  With an audible "POP!", the femur seated back in the tibial plateau, where it belonged.  Beautiful. 

Now to feel guilty for the rest of the evening about ignoring my daughter the one time she really DID need my help.  UGH UGH UGH.