I'm afraid I'm missing the Mothering Sympathy Gene. You know, that thing that makes you run to your kids & scoop them up in your arms when they get hurt. I'm much more likely to be found standing over their poor broken bodies saying things like, "Well, if you'd have gone inside when I told you to instead of climbing up the tree house ladder again, you probably wouldn't have fallen off the slide & hurt your leg." Or, "If you had been in your room cleaning it like you were told to, your brother couldn't possibly have poked you in the arm with his pencil because he was in the kitchen." Or, "I'm sorry you chipped a tooth, but I'm pretty sure I just told you to quit swinging that stick around in the air like a sword."
Husband, on the other hand, picks them up & coddles them & promises candy & ice cream & rainbows & unicorns while I stand feet planted shoulder width apart, arms akimbo, eyes rolling back in my skull saying, "If you break your leg, don't run crying to me."
I think I may be damaged.