You know how it is when your teen gets into the car at the end of the school day.

Some days, it’s like there’s an AI in your passenger seat whose programmer quit after inputting the code for “Yes,” “No” and “Fine.”

Other days, there’s drama because Dylan has a crush on Lily but then Gavin feels like a third wheel and meanwhile Sophia is going Mean Girl because she’s super jealous and also Mr. Smith stopped handing out Jolly Ranchers because no one came to class with their pencils sharpened.

Still other days are kind of normal, with a balance of breathing and healthy-paced conversation, and one such day last week we had a nice, normal chat all the way home that ended with Bookworm saying something like this:

“I think it would be cool to have crutches. Except for, like, the pain.”

“You’d better take it back,” I said, recalling the time when, as an elementary school student who was old enough to know better, I wrapped my entire calf in masking tape for a day (tucked discreetly under my neon orange wind pants) because I desperately wanted to know what it felt like to have a cast.

Turns out it feels like lots of blisters and a healthy dose of Common Sense.

“Crutches might be fun at first, but I imagine they get old really fast. Plus you can’t skate with crutches,” I reminded her. “So just be thankful your legs function and find something else to aspire to.”

Four days later, I was filled with pride and bewilderment when Bookworm announced her choice to go with her youth group to our local trampoline park instead of attending her middle school dance the same evening.

What seventh grader does that?

She counted down the days to the event, and at the appointed time carefully chose her outfit for maximum air and comfort and was out the door with her bestie with a spring in her step.

One hour later, I heard my phone buzz and saw the youth leader’s name pop up on my screen. 

I naturally assumed it would be a bodily fluid incident, so I was pleasantly surprised when the woman (whose husband is a firefighter/EMT and was also present) said, “She sprained her ankle, and I don’t know if she’s sad because of how badly it hurts or about having to miss ice skating.”

She put Bookworm on the phone and we talked it through, decided she could stay and hang out for a while longer and we’d figure out the rest when she returned. 

She hobbled through the front door a couple hours later with a throbbing ankle but a surprisingly chipper demeanor. I watched her carefully as I wrapped an Ace bandage around her foot and commanded Mr. Roy to grab the ice pack from the freezer.

Finally I bit the bullet:

“I guess we’re going to have to look into crutches for a few days,” I sighed.

Bookworm had reverted to AI at this point but I’m 75 percent sure she was smiling on the inside.

The next day we took her to the doctor to make sure an amputation wasn’t in order, then made a few calls to borrow some crutches from Mr. Roy’s co-worker. Bookworm took to them naturally. Too naturally, if you ask me.

I watched as she practiced navigating the living room.

“Soooo,” I asked. “Is this everything you dreamed it would be?”

She kind of half-grinned. But it only took a couple days of navigating the school hallways with crutches for her to change her tune.

One afternoon, after I opened the door of the van for her to (literally) hop in, she tossed her new hardware to the floor and groaned.

“Ugh, I can’t wait until I can get rid of these things,” she said. “Can I go without them tomorrow?”

“We’ll see,” I said. “Have they lived up to your expectations?”

She gave me the silent treatment the rest of the way home.

Abbey Roy is a mom of three girls who make every day an adventure. She writes to maintain her sanity. You can probably reach her at amroy@nncogannett.com, but responses are structured around bedtimes and weekends.