I'll give you a hint. Which of my children do you think would appreciate a cake the color of Pepto-Bismol topped with a Strawberry Shortcake doll (a Shortcake-cake if you will, or as Ethan dubbed it, a Shortcake2).
That would be Nora, of course.
She loved the cake, the presents, and all the extra attention that went with her birthday. Not that this girl is ever starved for attention, mind you. She's pretty much the center of everyone's universe wherever she is, but it had been a somewhat difficult week, so she deserved some pampering.
Tuesday, she rode her bike into the road and just about got hit by a car. No. It wasn't a car. It was--naturally--a giant suped-up black monster truck with, I swear, bone-crushing teeth on the front and a smoking, forked tail trailing off the back. Nora was WAY less worried about this near-death experience than her mother, so I took away her bike. Only then did she start to cry. Unmoved, I told her firmly, "You're grounded from your bike and maybe in a few days you can ride it again, if you're lucky!" This was quite a blow to Nora the bike-a-holic who typically spends two hours a day riding back and forth on our sidewalks. Five whole minutes passed before she came up to me and, with equal parts sweetness and utter confidence, said, "I think I'm lucky now, Mom. Can I be lucky?"
Wednesday, she was playing with the boys (stairs=cliff, carpet=lava; typical goofy kid stuff) when she fell on her arm and really hurt herself. The rest of the night she cried every time anyone touched her. She wouldn't move her arm and let it hang limply at her side, a wounded wing. I figured I'd take her to the doctor if she was still in pain the next day. Sure enough, she woke up early, wailing from her bed. Her arm was still obviously hurt so I took her into the doctor, and as I drove to the office, I pictured the rest of the morning: poking, prodding, x-rays, broken bones, plaster cast, tears, more tears (poor thing).
After a few minutes of looking at Nora's arm and asking her to move it (no way!), Doctor W. took her hand, twisted her wrist slightly, bent her elbow and popped her arm back into place. It was only a dislocated elbow. What medical magic! What a relief! What an internal debate ensued in my head when Doctor W. kept calling it "nursemaid's elbow."
me: You know why it's called that, don't you? It's the kind of injury that happens when a frustrated babysitter yanks on a child's arm.
also me: Yeah, I knew that. But that's not what happened.
me: Sure. But he doesn't know that. He probably thinks you did it. I swear each time he says "nursemaid's elbow" he looks at you for your reaction.
also me: That's totally your imagination. He doesn't think I caused the injury...Does he?
me: I'm just sayin... Shouldn't you better mention again that you weren't even in the room when she got hurt?
getting defensive me: I already told him that three times. Now he's going to think I'm trying to hard to explain how I wasn't there. Or maybe he'll wonder why I wasn't there. Maybe he thinks I should have been there and that if I'm not abusive, at least I'm neglectful.
me: Hey, he's typing something into his laptop. What's he typing? Do you think he's posting a message to DCFS right now?
totally paranoid me: It's a good thing we dressed Nora nicely before coming here and combed her hair for once. At least they can see I take good care of her.
me: Or maybe they'll think she's dressed too cute. You're at the doctors for heaven's sake, not a church social. New shoes? Braided hair? You're obviously hiding something.
both me's: Aaaaarrrrggggghhh.
Anyway.
Doctor W. wanted to make sure she was okay before we left so he brought in a sucker and held it in front of Nora's hurt arm, "If you can grab this with your left arm, you can have it." Nora, still holding her arm at her side just in case, refused to grab it. Then Doctor W. tried the same thing with a pack of princess stickers. That did the trick. Man, I'm grateful to have a smart physician. All those years of medical school plus that extra class in Princess Psychology do pay off.
So Nora's fine. She's perfect. She's learning how to fold her thumb across her hand to show people that she's now FOUR years old.
I also keep finding those darn stickers on odd objects all over the house. I guess it's about time we got ourselves a princess phone.
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6 comments:
Ohhh, The youngest always gets these injuries! Mine had stitches and concussion one after another, from trying to keep up with his brothers. Hope Norah heals up well and quickly!
Happy Belated Birthday! That cake's pretty darn cute. And yeah, I'd say she's lucky.
Beautiful cake! Worthy of Princess Nora! What a scare with her arm, though! Glad everything's okay.
I had a similar experience with one of my daughters when she was that age...only I had that conversation with myself in the doctor's office while crying.
Not sure that helped anything!
Darling cake, darling little girl, and you know, I hadn't heard that name for that particular injury. Makes ya wonder how often they see that to give it it's own special name. :)
What scares me is that we have to worry about these trips to the doctor, that we have to worry that if anything goes wrong with our children accidentally that we might get blamed. What scares me even more is the too large number of parents who do need to be blamed.
Benji hit his head (running into walls, falling off curbs, etc.) so many times as a child that he has scar tissue on his forehead. How I dreaded him having huge bruises. I was sure everyone who saw us was looking at me like it was my fault. Thinks me: "But you don't understand--he actually likes running into walls!" Like anyone (without little boys) would believe that.
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