Let's just pretend that I haven't been around for, oh, like 9 months. (Which coincidentally, is just enough time to bring a li'l human baby into the world, which I DID NOT do.)
We had a broken arm happen at our house this week, due to misuse and abuse of the trampoline. Briellen broke both bones in her forearm, and I took control of the situation . . . like one of the Keystone Kops. I couldn't do anything right, and my poor little girl sat in a chair howling, holding her arm with it's new improved S-bend, while I tried to get my dead phone charged and get a babysitter for the other children.
We finally got everyone in the car with their wide variety of odd clothes (they had all been dressed normally to start the day, but had dressed down before the Calamity). As they all got out of the car, the broken-arm girl started howling again. "I want to go play! Why can't I go play? It's not fair!"
After x-rays, the doctor explained our options. She could have her bone set right away, with no pain relief, or we could wait several hours for surgery with anesthesia. After explaining, he said "I think, the second is better, yes?" I thought so.
She ended up having surgery on her arm and staying overnight at the hospital for two nights. During that time, she was 1. traumatized by waking up from surgery with no underwear on ("Why, why, why would they take my panties?" she sobbed), 2. discovered that jumping in the hall was painful, 3. tightrope-walked on the back of her bed, the couch in the play area, etc., 4. ran up and down the hall repeatedly, 5. learned to draw with her left hand 5. ate "yucky" food (soup, goulash, and rye bread seem to be the mainstays), 6. watched too many movies, 7. read her favorite book on Insects, 8. made friends with her roommate, an eight-year old with a broken leg, 9. played with her toy spider, Janie, 10. listened to her Dad read The Secret Garden (the whole book.)
My husband was incredibly noble in staying overnight at the hospital with her, taking on the nurses and the cultural differences in level of expectations. Our cultural expectations, for example, were that the hospital would provide toilet paper while the nurses expected us to bring our own. (They also expected us to bring our own hospital clothes, combs, etc. I guess most hospitals expect you to bring your own comb--I just couldn't remember to bring one, and Briellen ended up with a notable case of bedhead.)
Meanwhile, I held and comforted everybody at home, but unfortunately let them out of my sight twice. The first time, two people tracked green food coloring out of the pantry and throughout the house (the culprits were pretty easy to spot, though). The second time, I found the bathroom door locked, and discovered that the three-year old was cutting the one-year old's hair. (He didn't scream at all, though. And she really did a very good job, despite the fact that she had somehow gotten SCISSORS.)
I did not win Mother-of-the-Week honors this week, but we all survived. And it was something to feel what a hole Briellen leaves when she's not in her rightful place at the center of our family. When we picked her up from the hospital, Ammon kept reaching out to touch her and chuckling. We all pretty much felt the same way--so glad to have her back home.
