This past weekend I was single parenting temporarily since my husband had been invited to attend a golf "thing". The idea of getting together with my mom had been tossed around and at the last minute she decided to make the two hour trek north. I was glad that I didn't have to drag 5 children and a dog down to the 'rents for an overnight stay. That translates into about 3 suitcases worth of stuff. Instead Gramma packed up her reusable grocery bag and the "granddog". She is watching my canine niece while my sister vacations in Florida and we're stuck in 12C temperatures. But we're not bitter. Sadie is a Dane/Shepherd lap dog that slightly resembles Yoda with extraordinarily long legs. She is sweet but I'm quite sure she thinks she's a Jack Russell.
The visit was lovely. The kids enjoyed having Gramma for a sleepover. Oh, how I wish I could end this post right there. Before mom left the 9 year-old said her good-byes and trotted off to play at a friend's house. When she returned a few hours later she said a quick "Hey Mom!" and nonchalantly mentioned she had hurt her finger "just a bit". I was unconcerned due to the calmness in her voice and asked if she'd like some dinner. I scooped some lasagna on her plate and as she reached out to take it from me I saw the "just a bit" injured finger. It was bent at an odd angle, blue, and looked like a sausage with a casing too small. I dropped the fork and gasped! "What do you mean by 'just a bit'?!?" I may have spoken a tad louder and more frantic than intended. At this point my formerly collected little girl began to whimper. I regained my composure after the initial shock and simply stated that it looked as if it might be broken and I thought a trip to the emergency tomb..I mean, room may be in order. Although by this time I was calm, one by one each child approached to survey the damaged appendage and consequently proceeded to freak out! My 7 year-old was the most affected by the sight. You must understand, this particular child isn't my most tender. After being told her dog died this child shrugged her shoulders and asked for a fish. So when she cried everyone took it as a cue to panic.
I called my mother-in-law to ask if she would watch the children whose skeletons were still in tact which she graciously agreed to. I called my mother to inflict guilt for leaving me in my time of need. After I explained the 7 year-old's reaction to her she suggested that I take her with us to the hospital so she would know her big sister (and best friend) was ok. When I offered this to her the tears subsided and a strange look of shock took their place. She retorted with some variant of "are you nuts??" Who would imagine that a little girl who has never been to a hospital since the day of her birth would already have such an intense aversion to them? I decided not to scar her and allowed her to pass on the opportunity. I have since come to realize it probably had little to do with any phobia and more to do with the fact that Memere was coming and Memere always brings treats.
After my mother-in-law arrived and I listened to my kids be rude by asking for the treats she so obviously brought and then reprimanded them for said rudeness we were on our way. In the van my daughter then explained the whole story to me. She had been jumping on her friend's trampoline and flipped on to her finger. I hate trampolines. I do not own one for this exact purpose. She knows this. I bit my tongue when spiteful words were threatening to roll off of it. Instead I told her I felt she had learned her lesson and that I was glad it was not a more important limb. Without missing a beat she then explained to me the importance of gymnastics lessons so she could learn to jump on a trampoline properly. No, there were no lessons learned that day.
At the hospital we were almost immediately ushered into radiology for some x-rays. The technician would not allow me in the room and I quickly found out why. After 3 minutes my baby was crying out in pain. I could hear her through the door with the big "DO NOT ENTER" sign hung at eye level. At this point I wondered if that sign was just a mere suggestion and it would be permissible if not advisable for me to burst in and rescue my precious girl from her scrub-clad torturer. Just as I was calculating how much of a running start I would need to bust open the door they emerged and I was saved from a soiled reputation. It did not take long for the doctor to review the tests and reveal that the left pinkie was indeed broken. She was splinted, taped, and medicated before we knew it! While I was driving I noticed she seemed slightly forlorn. I tried to cheer her up by saying, "What a blessing it's your left hand! You can still do your school work!" Didn't go over quite as well as I had hoped.
The visit was lovely. The kids enjoyed having Gramma for a sleepover. Oh, how I wish I could end this post right there. Before mom left the 9 year-old said her good-byes and trotted off to play at a friend's house. When she returned a few hours later she said a quick "Hey Mom!" and nonchalantly mentioned she had hurt her finger "just a bit". I was unconcerned due to the calmness in her voice and asked if she'd like some dinner. I scooped some lasagna on her plate and as she reached out to take it from me I saw the "just a bit" injured finger. It was bent at an odd angle, blue, and looked like a sausage with a casing too small. I dropped the fork and gasped! "What do you mean by 'just a bit'?!?" I may have spoken a tad louder and more frantic than intended. At this point my formerly collected little girl began to whimper. I regained my composure after the initial shock and simply stated that it looked as if it might be broken and I thought a trip to the emergency tomb..I mean, room may be in order. Although by this time I was calm, one by one each child approached to survey the damaged appendage and consequently proceeded to freak out! My 7 year-old was the most affected by the sight. You must understand, this particular child isn't my most tender. After being told her dog died this child shrugged her shoulders and asked for a fish. So when she cried everyone took it as a cue to panic.
I called my mother-in-law to ask if she would watch the children whose skeletons were still in tact which she graciously agreed to. I called my mother to inflict guilt for leaving me in my time of need. After I explained the 7 year-old's reaction to her she suggested that I take her with us to the hospital so she would know her big sister (and best friend) was ok. When I offered this to her the tears subsided and a strange look of shock took their place. She retorted with some variant of "are you nuts??" Who would imagine that a little girl who has never been to a hospital since the day of her birth would already have such an intense aversion to them? I decided not to scar her and allowed her to pass on the opportunity. I have since come to realize it probably had little to do with any phobia and more to do with the fact that Memere was coming and Memere always brings treats.
After my mother-in-law arrived and I listened to my kids be rude by asking for the treats she so obviously brought and then reprimanded them for said rudeness we were on our way. In the van my daughter then explained the whole story to me. She had been jumping on her friend's trampoline and flipped on to her finger. I hate trampolines. I do not own one for this exact purpose. She knows this. I bit my tongue when spiteful words were threatening to roll off of it. Instead I told her I felt she had learned her lesson and that I was glad it was not a more important limb. Without missing a beat she then explained to me the importance of gymnastics lessons so she could learn to jump on a trampoline properly. No, there were no lessons learned that day.
At the hospital we were almost immediately ushered into radiology for some x-rays. The technician would not allow me in the room and I quickly found out why. After 3 minutes my baby was crying out in pain. I could hear her through the door with the big "DO NOT ENTER" sign hung at eye level. At this point I wondered if that sign was just a mere suggestion and it would be permissible if not advisable for me to burst in and rescue my precious girl from her scrub-clad torturer. Just as I was calculating how much of a running start I would need to bust open the door they emerged and I was saved from a soiled reputation. It did not take long for the doctor to review the tests and reveal that the left pinkie was indeed broken. She was splinted, taped, and medicated before we knew it! While I was driving I noticed she seemed slightly forlorn. I tried to cheer her up by saying, "What a blessing it's your left hand! You can still do your school work!" Didn't go over quite as well as I had hoped.
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