MindSpinner

I pick him up at a nearby fun park. He’s spent an hour with a couple of cute girls, one of whom he likes. He’s a handsome kid, frankly, walking toward the car, though he rocks a little when he walks, as if he’s trying to do it without bending hips and knees any more than necessary. He’s out tonight, perked up after a morning of intermittent digestive trouble.

As we pull in the driveway at the house, he opens the car door. “Would you pull in one of those cans?” I ask, gesturing toward the two toppled trash cans left at curbside by the garbage man.

“Sure,” he says. He gets out of the car looking like a young man and moving now like an old one. He’s decidedly limping now, keeping one leg braced straight. I drive on into the driveway as he pulls the trash can next to the garage and goes into the house. I fight tears. He will always have this.

In the house, I wish him a good night through his closed bedroom door.

“Mom,” he says. “I hurt my leg tonight just by pushing on the gas pedal of a go cart. It really hurts.” Joint hypermobility, we learned this week, makes him susceptible to strains.

“Do you want to take an Aleve or an Ibubrofen?” I ask, “Just so you can sleep?”

“No,” he decides, “no pills. It doesn’t hurt much if I don’t move it.”