Ouch

I remember being at a cricket match about three years ago and having a drink with another Mother who at the time had two young boys. She asked idly, just to make conversation, I think, how many times we'd had to go to casualty.

Gertie was four, immaculately behaved with a penchant for sedate pastimes like reading and beading.  Dipping her toe into waves at the seaside was about the limit of her daredevil activity.

I laughed and thought the other mother was joking.  But no, it transpired that this was a regular occurrence in her household.  There had been falling out of trees, from bikes, in the playground.  It was a world alien to me as I cradled my baby boy and watched as Gertie worked away at her tapestry.  (I embellish a little, for narrative effect, but you get the idea.)

Fast forward to last weekend and our very first 'A&E' experience.  Another sunny Saturday afternoon at the cricket, home team on the verge of what would be a tight victory. A cry from the long grass.  Gertie comes running over because Eddie has fallen.  Eddie's arm hangs limply by his side and he is emitting a strange wail that I have never heard before.  I scoop him up in my arms and run to Hearth-father pronouncing that we have a 'situation' on our hands.  There is an off-duty nurse at the pitch side.  She takes a look and doesn't like what she sees.

Hearth-father looks longingly at what is left in his pint glass and decides that it isn't worth the risk with the inevitable drive to the hospital ahead.

Hearth-granny is called to babysit the big kids.  Hearth-mother is crying, convinced that x-rays will reveal the worst.  (She's not entirely sure why she has slipped in to third person at this stage, except that it also contributes to narrative effect.) Eddie doesn't stop screaming for the entire journey, despite being cradled by his mother all the way.  She feels every bump and jolt and corner even more than she did in labour on the same route two and a half years ago.

It is Saturday night and the accident and emergency department is standing-room only.  A queue of unfortunates line up waiting to be seen.  Eddie has cried himself to sleep and now looks unconscious, which gains some sympathetic glances from the other casualties.

The triage nurse provides painkillers and unhelpfully wakes Eddie in the process of weighing him.  Agrees that the signs are not good.  Eddie perks up a bit when he sees the toys in the paediatric waiting room, and we are at least now away from the drunken melee in the main waiting area.  Eddie tries to play, but cannot move his arm and feebly plays left-handed.  Another boy, about the same age is being tickled by his daddy.  Eddie wants us to do the same, but is too protective of his arm to find a giggle.

Two hours pass.  All the toys have been played with.  Conversations have been struck up with the other parents.  Everyone now knows everyone else's business.  Eddie has inadvertently revealed that Gertie was giving him a piggy back when he fell, much to the consternation of his parents and the amusement of everyone around. Oh.  That puts a slightly different complexion on things, exacerbating the extent of the injury.  He has fallen from a greater height than we originally thought.

Two more hours pass. There are still fourteen people ahead of us to be treated.  Eddie is becoming increasingly fractious (that's one of my favourite euphemisms). We decide to leave and get some sleep.  It it past midnight by the time we reach home.

Eddie wakes screaming at 2am and we give him more medicine.  In the morning his arm is still useless.  He tries to eat cereal and screams as he raises the spoon.  We phone NHS direct and they advise us to go straight back to casualty.  We cancel our plans for a visit to friends, and bring plenty of snacks and activities to the hospital.  The big kids are excited by the adventure, though Gertie is a little sheepish about her role in events, and her reluctance to impart crucial information the previous evening.

Three hours and three x-rays later, we discover there is nothing wrong.  Nil. Nada.  Eddie high-fives me. With his bad hand.  Which has miraculously come back to life with the news. I manage to refrain from throttling him in full view of a number of health officials.  It really is a very good job that he's cute.

We try to salvage something of the day by going out for lunch, but Eddie is grumpy and we abandon the mission. Hearth-mother is unsympathetic. (See, detaching myself again).

Eddie wakes up on Monday morning and with a twinkle in his eye asks if we can go back to the hospital and play with the toys.  My response is unpublishable.

I come home from work to find that his nanny is 'really worried about him' and has him lying on the sofa with his arm in a sling.  She is mopping his brow.  Seems perturbed when I am undisturbed.  Eddie realises that the game is up and hops up smartly to begin playing with his siblings...

Ouch.  Not sure who has been hurt more by the whole episode.  I am just aware that I lost seven hours this weekend that I won't get back.  Eddie: not his real name.  Might change it to 'Flimflammer'.


Currently reading: You Talkin to Me? By Sam Leith

A Younger, Blonder, Much Weirder Looking Me

Inspired by The Gallery at Sticky Fingers, which I stumbled upon just recently, is a photo of a younger me.  It appeared on Facebook recently, courtesty of an old friend of mine, and has prompted thoughts of a new haircut as I establish myself firmly in my forties.  Probably not a repeat of this one, though.  And for anyone who doesn't know me, and possibly also for those who do, I'm the one on the left.

Teething Trouble

It was a beautiful day last weekend when Gertie made her first Holy Communion. The sun shone down for my little girl's big day.

But I am struggling a little this weekend once more.  Not over complex theological questions (though she certainly likes to pose those) but over the tooth fairy, and the lengths I am now going to allow the 'magic' to last.  

The tooth in question came out on Friday at school, and Gertie left it in her tray, forgetting to take it home at the end of the day.  She was a little bit upset about this on Friday night, but by Saturday she had found the answer:  She resolved to write to the tooth fairy, setting her straight about the situation, and suggesting that the tooth fairy retrieve the tooth from school, but leave the money under her pillow as usual.

I posted my dilemma on Facebook, and it was quickly resolved by a friend who knew someone who knew someone who has access to the school over the weekend.  I am reliably informed that the tooth will have been removed by Monday morning, and I am fairly confident that the tooth fairy will visit this evening.

What a difference a week makes.

Currently reading: Before the Fall by Juliet West

Potty Book

I saw this and it made me smile.  And then I saw Martin D's 'post' and immediately thought of Eddie.

Because, and here's the thing:  I decided at half term that, since I would be home with the kids, it would be the time to potty train Eddie.  He seemed keen, the weather forecast was good (outdoor activities planned as part of carpet protection scheme) and it would be the summer before I had that kind of time to spare again.

It was an unmitigated disaster.  Day one went something like 8-0 (Carpet v Potty).  Day two was like war.  There was screaming, and tantrums, and Eddie wasn't particularly well-behaved, either.  By day three the plan was abandoned, and we remortgaged the house to pay for the additional nappies needed for the next few months.

And then, the following Friday, he announced at nursery entirely unprompted that he would be, "wearing big boy pants today, thank you".  They duly phoned us for permission to oblige; we laughed down the receiver and thought of the washing he'd be bringing home.

Nope.  Not a bit of it.  No accidents.  Not one. Perfectly potty-trained.  The nursery congratulated us on what a good job we'd been doing.

And that just about sums up Eddie: Nobody is going to tell him what to do or when to do it.

Ever, I suspect.

Anyone want to buy a truckload of nappies?



Currently Reading: The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver

More Shelves, Please, I'm Winning

I seem to be a little bit preoccupied by my eldest child at the moment.  I do have other children, I remember, but lots seems to be revolving around Gertie. This is the fifth post in a row in which she is the main event.

I will find other subject matter, but just one last little thing.  She does Irish dancing.  Mostly because this was a thing that I had to do when I was little.  She was at the CAID British Open Championships in Farnham in Surrey a couple of weekends ago where she won her light jig and came third in the championship overall, which generated a sizeable piece of silverware.

I did a reasonable job of hiding the remnants of Scissorgate:

Her comment? "Mummy, I know that you've only just decorated my room, but I think I'm going to need another shelf."

Currently reading: The Testament of Mary by Colm Toibin

Magic Number Seven

Seven is a magic number.

It is a lot of candles on a cake.

It is the difference between a cake that looks like a cake - something that grown-ups might like to eat too - and one that looks like this, from last year:

It is the difference between having a tea party with cup cakes and jelly and ice-cream, and going out to the cinema with a few mates from school, which was this year's 'party' choice.

It is a long time in years and it makes for one very grown up little girl.

Things have begun to happen very fast indeed.  She had a sleepover with two friends.  And they were entirely sensible, asking to brush their teeth after their 'midnight' feast, and all asleep by 10pm.

Her present from us was a tablet (much debate and agonising).  We haven't sorted out the internet controls yet, but she has, unfortunately already downloaded 'Candy Crush Saga'. On the upside, it means that presents are getting smaller.  More expensive, yes, but less plastic, bulky and ugly. She is more self contained.  She had a friend round to play earlier in the week and they sat quietly and made bangles for an hour and a half.

She doesn't volunteer for anything anymore.  She used to be the 'pick me, pick me' person, unable to stay in her seat with the effort of thrusting her hand upwards.  She was forever up on stage as the helper in the pantomime or magic show.  Now she would rather sit back and watch other people make fools of themselves, which is a little sad.

But we giggle together at something shared.  Often.  I do a lot of laughing with the boys, too, but it's usually at something they've said or done.

How do I feel?  Proud of my so clever and confident and beautiful girl.  Slightly wistful for the innocent bygone days of pleasures that don't involve a screen and downloading stuff.  A tiny bit frightened by how fast it is all changing...


Currently reading: Strange Music by Laura Fish.

Have the Bumps Gone Out of Fashion?

I only ask because it has never once occurred to me to give any of my children the bumps on their birthday.
In fact, I'd forgotten that they even existed until my memory was jolted by the sight of Arsene Wenger receiving them courtesy of his team following their FA Cup win.

Seeing this white-haired man in his mid-sixties being casually tossed aloft - and looking both delighted and slightly sheepish at the same time -  reminded me of that mixture of fear and exhilaration that came with getting the bumps on your birthday.  It was part of the whole deal...cake, candles, making a wish, presents, musical statues, the bumps.

So where did they go?  We've attended dozens of children's parties in over the last seven years.  Not even a sniff of them.  Wikipedia described them as one of a number of 'birthday torments' that might be inflicted.  I wondered if contemporary health and safety fears have banished them to the annals of history.

So, ignoring all that, we decided to reinstate them for Gertie's seventh birthday.

I think she enjoyed herself!

Currently reading: Death at Wentwater Court by Carola Dunn
Don't judge...it's half term!