I'm forced to become the mean mommy

As much as I love my husband, I've often said that being married to him is like being married to a puppy. I love puppies. They're fun and cute and playful and full of energy.

But sometimes they need a good swat on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

And I say this as a woman who has never subscribed to the "men are idiots who need to be told what to do for their own good" school of thought. I've never been a male-basher and I'm not interested in being in a relationship in which the dynamic is me telling him what to do.

Jason has all of these friends who are amazed that I "let" him go surfing with his buddies on the weekend, because they were never "allowed" by their wives to go out and have fun when their children were young babies. I've never understood this. Beyond consulting each other to make sure that there isn't a scheduling conflict or that the other won't be inconvenienced by baby care or dog care or the like, we don't ask each other's permission to do things. We share responsibility for keeping the house running and the baby fed and safe, and as a result, we each get to do our own thing every once in a while. He goes surfing with his buddies. I go play tennis or get a pedicure. It all works out.

But this past weekend, I had to hitch up my big-girl pants and lay down the hammer.

A few weeks ago, before he left for Australia, Jason went mountain biking. There's a trail up in the hills a few miles from where we live that's set up with jumps and ladder rides and other insane devices for people who have too little regard for their personal safety.

Jason is unquestionably one of those people. He plays hard. And as a result, he occasionally falls hard, and he's constantly coming home with injuries. When we lived in Atlanta, he regularly went mountain biking with a group of guys, and he routinely came home scraped or banged up because he had skidded off a big rock and cracked a bone in his arm or was doing wheelies in the parking lot and tipped backwards onto his ass. When he goes surfing, he frequently comes home with his feet and ankles cut up from smashing them on the reef. He's broken his pelvis landing badly on a jump while snowboarding.

So a few weeks ago, Jason goes up to this trail he's heard about and starts riding around and doing jumps and whatever.

(A ladder ride with a teeter totter. Meaning you start riding up with the rails on one level, and then when your weight passes the fulcrum, the entire structure tips down to join with another part of the ladder. You couldn't pay me enough money to ride my bike on this thing.)

One of the jumps had a landing that veered sharply to the right. Jason took it at high speed, apparently not realizing how hard the turn on the landing was. His bike managed to make the right turn. Unfortunately, he didn't. He went flying into the bushes and trees, hit his head so hard that it broke his helmet, and smashed up his left ankle.

(The offending jump)

When he came home, he was covered with mud and his ankle was swollen, but he didn't think it was broken because although it hurt, he could walk on it. The bruising and pain continued and didn't really subside much over the ensuing week or so.

In Australia, he was at the hospital with his dad and decided to get his ankle checked out. Turns out, it's broken. But did Jason get a cast or even wrap it? No, of course not!

When I asked him why he wasn't getting it cared for, his pat response was "aw, she'll be alright." (You have to imagine this with an Aussie accent to get the full effect. Translation: "No big deal. And casts are for pussies.")

After another week, he finally decided that his manhood wouldn't be too compromised by an ace bandage, so he wrapped his ankle. I considered it a small victory, but was careful not to gloat.

Then this past Friday, we were invited to a backyard barbecue for the 4th of July. There was grilling and watermelon and music and hanging out in camp chairs shooting the breeze and dogs chasing each other around.

And a trampoline.Jason, being Jason, couldn't resist getting up and jumping with the kids. He then had the temerity to be surprised when about 10 minutes after he stopped, his ankle started swelling up like a water balloon attached to a firehose.

We got him some ice packs and some Advil and sat him down with his leg elevated.

And then I had to say the words that I've never uttered in the course of my marriage, and that I hope I never have to utter again:

"Honey, you're grounded."