I had all kinds of things I wanted to talk about in today's post, but then on Saturday I got a text from my husband saying my daughter might have broken her arm.
It's one of those messages that, as a parent, you dread getting. It's up there with finding out your kid has lice or had a tooth knocked out during a soccer game.
I dropped what I was doing, literally dropped it, and ran to take my daughter to the emergency room. My daughter is...how can I say...not so tolerant of pain.
She was sitting on the porch when I pulled up and my husband told me the neighbors had all been over to inquire about her well-being. "You could hear her screaming for a three block radius," he mentioned as we hustled her into the car.
At the emergency room she was calm enough to argue with the admitting nurse. "I can't get out of the wheelchair to be weighed. Can't you just weigh me and subtract the weight of the chair?"
"Is it her leg?" the nurse asked.
"No, no. It's her arm," I assured her.
The X-ray technicians received similar treatment. "You have no idea what you're asking me to do," she wailed at the suggestion she move her wrist a few degrees to the left. This statement was followed by the same kind of loud shrieking you might hear at a One Direction concert or a maternity ward.
From the safety of the protective X-ray screen one of the techs told me, "You're gonna have fun with that one when she's a teenager.
"Yes," I said. "When the time comes, I'm betting natural childbirth won't be the path she chooses."
Later, when she'd be duly weighed and filmed we settled in for the interminable wait familiar to anyone who's ever visited an emergency room. We alternated between upbeat talk about plans for the summer, sad tears about the possibility of not being able to participate in any more Maypole performances and frustration.
"What's taking so long?" she demanded, eyeing the call button. "The service around here is terrible!"
In the end we left with a splinted arm that's bigger than anything else on her body. It's a small fracture. We find out if she gets a cast later in the week.
Before I sat down to write this post I checked on her in her room. "Mom, I think Ibuprofen makes you cry," she said looking at me with weepy eyes.
"No, it's just for the pain."
"But I feel so sad!!!! I know it's the Ibuprofen. I'm certain of it! It takes away the physical pain and just leaves you with the emotional part of it."
I was tempted to tell her it's normal to feel sad about a broken bone or that it could be a surge of tweenage hormones or generalized angst about all the big changes coming up in our lives (more on that later), but instead I decided not to argue.
"You're probably right," I said which brought out a smile.
Because sometimes, depending on who you are, being right is more important than being factual. Of course, that's not something I know from personal experience or anything.
Seriously, you should all just reread the first sentence in the last paragraph and go with me on this one.