I've told you before that broken bones tend to run in my family. Yesterday Curly was playing ball in the mudroom when he took a tumble and smacked his pinky finger on the dog food box. He was pretty upset about it, but not upset enough for medicine or an ice pack, so I headed back to my regular tasks. Half an hour later he was complaining again. After this happened a dozen times, I told him I would take him to the doctor on Saturday morning if he wasn’t feeling better.
So bright and early (OK, it was 9:00) I examined his finger. It was swollen with a black bruise ring very near the center knuckle. Of course we headed to the InstaCare. They moved us through quickly and soon we were stressing over X-rays. Curly was afraid of the big machine, but only for a minute. He was so excited to see what his hand looked like on the inside!
When we were finished, the doc told us that his bones were fine and intact. He had the nurse wrap the smallest two fingers together and cautioned us to use the wrap for five days. Gratefully, we headed for the door. We hadn’t been home five minutes when I noticed that the bandage was off. I scolded Curly and rewrapped his finger.
You know, I’m not a “helicopter” mom, but this whole deal reminded me of another story and another son. When the Gym Rat was in 6th grade, he broke his thumb playing football. The doctor gave him what looked like a rubber thumb to wear so he could continue to play ball. He was supposed to use it for three weeks and I don’t think he had it on for 3 minutes!
Another time he ran into a chain at the park while riding his bike with friends. He mentioned once that his arm was hurting a little, but then he didn’t say anything else…for a couple of days. Nearly a week had passed before he casually mentioned that he didn’t feel any better and maybe he needed to see a doctor. So I took him in. Sure enough, his arm had been broken (for a week!) and I definitely got the bad parent of the year award. Not that it mattered, he did the same thing he did with the thumb…on the way to school he would slip off his cast and place it in his backpack. Then as he was walking across our driveway, he would pull it out and wriggle his hand back inside. It wasn’t until Bossy told me what he was doing that I put a stop to it. And you thought I was a bad kid when I was that age!