"Look at this scab," the boy said to one of the other kids in line. "It looks like a pepperoni pizza."
And he was right. The injury was the slightly larger than a quarter in size, and had two sharp red dots within the scab. It looked like an angry, hot out of the oven mini-pizza with two pepperoni slices on top.
"Go ahead! Touch the scab!! Touch the pizza scab!" he said to his friend. I'm not sure if his friend touched it; I would like to think he was brave enough that he did.
I don't think most girls would express the injury with such joy and enthusiasm. And I'm willing to bet that the boy wasn't quite so thrilled when he hurt himself.
Had it been one of our boys who had suffered the injury, we would have held him, consoled him and carefully patched him up.
But maybe, just maybe, if one of my boys went to school with just such an injury he would have proudly displayed his wound -- as if it was a major accomplishment and something to be proud of.
I never broke my arm as a kid or did anything that required a cast. And I sure as hell wouldn't want to break a bone now. But I remember that I always felt a tiny bit of envy whenever I saw other kids getting their cast signed. It was like we all had to acknowledge their pain and pay tribute to their bravery. As if by accidentally hurting themselves they proved to be smarter and more daring than anyone else.
It's the attainment of popularity and fame through injury. Pity can come from adults; from other kids, it's awe.
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