By Tuqa Al Ayoubi
Dima was a notoriously busy woman. If being a working mother was a competitive sport, she’d be an Olympian— a very involved, hands-on school Vice Principal, with five kids who each needed, and got, their own share of her attention, interest, and time—and that’s not counting the rest of the family. On most days though, she juggles all of these with expert ease. Keyword: most days.
One day in the winter of 2015, Dima drove her third son, Ibrahim, to his Taekwondo practice. It was routine; the sky was cloudy; the sunset was beautiful, and she’d been in a great mood all day. Her nostalgic music was interrupted by her phone ringing—that, too, was routine– one does not become an Olympian multitasker without constant overtime. She picked up just as she was parking, and Ibrahim already knew to jump out ahead of her while she finished her 10-minute phone call about excel sheets.
The hall her son practiced in twice a week was the size of a basketball court. All the children looked about the same age as her son, all wearing the same white robes, each with different colored belts, based on their experience at the sport. The skinny, olive-skinned boy with light brown hair peeked out from the crowd and waved. Dima waved back at her son as she took a seat with the other watching parents.
As Dima watched the kids practice their kicks, she wondered if she had enough time to run and grab a coffee from the lobby and hurry back before it was Ibrahim’s turn. Around twenty kids were standing in a group watching the sensei hold a kid’s leg and stretch it out slowly. This was routine, so Dima knew the drill: The sensei helped them stretch, then each pair sparred in order as the sensei criticizes their techniques.
Ibrahim knelt to tie his shoes, and that was when she knew it was her chance to sneak out. She held her bag to her chest as she hastily tip toed out of the hall, too quick for Ibrahim to see her.
She’d just finished getting her cappuccino from the machine and turned to stuff the sugar packets in her handbag when her cell phone rang. Again, it was work—this time, a 20-minute meandering conversation about report cards. As she talked, she paced in circles in the lobby, her leaking paper cup leaving a trail of coffee droplets in circles on the ground.
Suddenly, a second call was on the line, this time from an unknown number. Curious, Dima took the call.
“Mom?”
Dima stopped walking and her heart dropped.
“Ibrahim? Is that you?” she answered.
“MOM! Where are you?” Ibrahim was crying. “You have to come back right now!” His voice shivered and he had to pause to take deep breaths from how hard he was sobbing.
“What’s wrong? Hello? Hello!” Dima said. Her Olympian Mom crisis management skills came in handy—despite her alarm, she kept her voice calm and steady.
The elevator took an eternity to come, and an even longer time to get up from the ground to the fifth floor.
Dima couldn’t control the thousands different horrible scenarios that ran through her mind. Did he fall and injure his head? Break a rib? Is she going to walk in and see a bloodbath? Maybe he hurt someone? Instead of getting hurt himself? No, no way. His cries on the phone were definitely from intense pain. Oh God, what if…
The elevator door finally opened and she ran to the practice hall, looking around desperately for her son. The parents were still sitting and chatting on the side, and the group of pairs were practicing on each other– No bloodbaths, no carnage, no disasters. Everything seemed… fine? But then, she saw it. The sensei, and two boys were gathered around Ibrahim, who was silently crying, grimacing in pain, and holding his right wrist.
“Oh, poor baby! What happened?” Dima said, hugging her son.
“I’m pretty sure my arm is broken! I swear I heard it crack… I lost balance and then I heard like a … Crack. It hurts SO bad…” Ibrahim said, frantically waving his left (uninjured) arm to act out exactly what happened.
“Oh my God. Are you sure?” Dima said, gently inspecting his arm.
“May I speak with you for a moment?” The sensei told Dima. He took her to the side and told her, “Don’t worry… I’ve seen many cases like his. It’s just a twisted wrist, he’s being dramatic because he’s feeling a lot of pain.”
“Oh, that’s good news. So, what should I do?” She asked.
“Take him home, wrap it tightly and give him pain killers, that’ll do,” the sensei said. Dima thanked him.
“Let’s go.. Come on, I can get you a new game for your Play station, how does that sound?” Dima said as she held Ibrahim close to her as they walked out.
Ibrahim wiped his tear and smiled. “Yes!” he said.
