This is my public apology. Because sometimes, when you make someone in your family so mad, it’s just not good enough to apologize only to his face. He may long for the big admission.  He may want you to scream “I was so completely wrong” loudly from the rooftops.  He may get a tiny bit of satisfaction if there was nothing left to utter except for those two little-but-oh-so-big healing, magical words that don’t always flow smoothly from my lips.  

So here’s my moment. This one may take the cake for the bad wife award. More so than the time he had appendicitis and I delayed driving him to the hospital because I just didn’t believe the pain was that bad.  

For weeks, I’ve been making fun of Really Big Guy.  I’ve been telling him to tough it out.  Play through the pain. I’ve been doing my best to avoid leg rubs and foot rubs, convinced that nothing was really wrong with him.  He was just being wimpy.

You see, he’s no weekend warrior.  He exercise, plays hard with the kids.  He’s run races.  He plays hockey strictly for fun with a bunch of other manly men who are trying to blow off a little steam and relax.  He even chased down two guys through a maze of backyards and walkways down Hillsborough Street when they fled after a hit and run to his car.  Oh yes, that’s my man.  Jumping fences and running stairs.  He is tough.

But sometimes, I think he forgets this little fact.  Maybe it’s intentional.  Perhaps he’s trying to get a little pampering in, since so often, we don’t have quality time to spend together.

So when he complained of leg pain, I dismissed it.  I told him he needed to stretch.  Take glucosamine. I said it was nothing a little icing wouldn’t cure. Maybe it was his age catching up to him.  Or maybe too much dessert.    Whatever it was, he needed to shake it off.

If only it had been that easy.

When he arrived home a few weeks ago with a boot extending up to his knee, I knew my time had come.  It was a stress facture of the fibula. And it had been there for a while.    

So, Really Big Guy, I admit it. I was wrong.  And I’m sorry.  

Maybe now that I have admitted my callous, uncaring ways to mothers, wives, friends, and family everywhere, perhaps you can cut me a little slack.  Maybe I can stop making your favorite sandwiches and bringing them to you on a tray.  Or stop pulling your car around to the front door so you can avoid the steps.  Or quit baking your favorite cookies. Maybe, because I have said I’m sorry, you can just stop rubbing it in.

And in return, I promise, next time, I’ll believe you.

Illyse appears Thursdays on TriangleMom2Mom.