“Look at this one, Mommy!” It was Friday morning, and Dylan had dragged two pillows to the base of the short carpeted steps from the living area to the family room/crap storage area in order to launch himself into the air and onto a soft landing. It’s the sort of thing he’s done about a million times before (“I’m Felix Baumgartner!”) but five seconds later he was curled up and weeping on the floor, holding his left foot.
Ahhh SHIT, I thought. Not again.
Getting actual medical treatment for his injury was comically difficult — we went to the pediatrician on Friday, who sent us to the hospital imaging center, who didn’t turn back the X-ray results until today, at which point we were sent to an orthopedics center, and finally to a casting specialist — but the end result was a bright yellow/green cast (“You want Ducks colors, little man?” the guy said, and I sent frantic mental vibes to Dylan to choose something a little less eye-bleedingly neon but nooooo, DUCKS COLORS IT IS) and instructions to return in four weeks.
He’s got a fracture at the top of his foot at the base of his big toe, and christ almighty has he ever been a stoic kid about the whole thing. All weekend long he gamely crawled, hopped, or butt-scooted since he couldn’t put weight on his foot, he held about as still as it’s possible for a four-year-old to be for the X-rays and casting, and now he’s galloping around like he’s been wearing a clunky fiberglass boot all his life.
Pulled tooth? Done. Cast? Checked that box. Jesus, we’re on a roll lately.
(The Bone Fairy made another last-minute Amazon order for that stuffed whistlepig. We need to get our shit together around here before I go broke buying guilt presents.)