Breaks and accidents

One of my current chores is dropping off and picking up the Boys - #1 & #2 - from school.  This is necessary because Boy #1 has a broken leg.  Boy #2 could walk, of course he could, but as any sensible parent of teens will tell you, if one of your children needs a lift somewhere there is No Way the other can countenance walking - even if Exercise Is A Good Thing, and that they would Really Benefit From A Little Fresh Air.

It's not so bad, really; after spending the summer holidays ferrying my older son around like a junior pasha, injured limb propped up on cushions across the back seat of the car, making the short trip to school twice a day doing the same thing does, in fact, seem like a bit of a break.  (Not an intentional use of that word, but it seems to fit so I'll stick with it...)

Ten days after the start of term, the boys threw open the car doors and climbed in, all mangled bags, crumpled blazers and monosyllabic grunts.  Boy #1, thankfully now not requiring the entire back seat, thumped onto the front next to me.

"Look."

I glanced down to the floor, and saw that below the cast encasing his leg from knee to the ball of his foot, his big toe was wrapped in bandages.  Please, not again.

"Oh god.  What happened?  Is your leg alright?"

"My leg's fine.  I slipped, and cut the bottom of my toe."

"How on earth did you manage that?"

A long explanation followed.  Well - long for a fifteen year old, as I believe more than ten words were required.  He had been in the school gym going through the exercises set by his physio, and it had seemed like a good idea to remove the plastic sandal protecting the underside of his plaster cast.  When nature called,  rather than waste valuable time putting the sandal back on, he'd headed for the bathroom without it - and that was when the accident happened and he'd tripped and sliced a sizeable piece skin off the base of his toe.

There was quite a lot of blood, he assured me.  After asking whether the accident had hurt the healing broken leg - it hadn't - I moved on to my next question.

"Why on earth did you take the sandal off?"

"I don't know.  I just did."

"But you'd left the trainer on your other foot...?"  He nodded.  "Because - you just did, I suppose?"

He nodded again.

I took a deep breath.  "OK.  Well, I'm not going to say anything about that - although I'm sure you've worked out for yourself that walking around with one leg essentially longer than the other is likely to lead to tripping up."

The faint look of suprise suggested that perhaps he hadn't considered that as a cause for the incident, but he nodded seriously - mostly, I think, in the hope of shutting me up.  It didn't work.

"And - no, don't look at me like that, I hadn't finished - the only other thing I want to say is that whilst you've got this cast on, the next time you think of taking your sandal off away from home, can you consider where you are beforehand?  Because of all the indoor places to do that, the gym - where people sweat, wear dirty trainers etc, is probably the second worst place to do so."

He sighed heavily.  "OK Mum.  Where's the first worst place, then?"

"I'm glad you asked.  The worst place to be without proper footwear, for reasons I really hope I don't need to spell out, is where you were headed for - the school toilets."


Is it just boys, I wonder?  Answers in the comments box, please...

What If?

I fell over in the street yesterday.  It was a Proper Incident; there was chance meeting between my foot and the ubiquitous nail-left-sticking-out-of-the-pavement so beloved by Russian workmen, followed by a crazy lurch forwards, a lack of free hands to stop myself hitting the ground (I was just walking out of the supermarket), a set of impressively grazed knuckles, and a nasty thud as my right temple hit the bumper of a parked car.

I lay there for a couple of seconds, wondering why my head was pounding so and whether the noise in my ears was normal after such a blow, before realising that the impact with the bumper had set off the car's burglar alarm.  (Do nothing by half measures, that's my motto.)

I was shaken, but felt fine once I'd brushed myself off, wiped the blood from my hands, and driven home (I know, I know, but it was the only way).  Then I sat down with an ice pack held to my temple for about 3 hours and watched a kids movie.  I was a bit teary, but after a visit from a lovely neighbour who checked my pupils, and some time on the sofa I felt sure I would be OK.  Of course, I wasn't - not completely - in hindsight I had a mild concussion, but all's well that ends well.  Yes, I have a bruise, and a slight headache still, but that's only to be expected when you do a reasonable impression of a crash test dummy without the air bag - or, indeed, the car.

Would I have gone to the hospital to get myself checked out if we'd been in London? Probably, yes.  Not because I really thought I had done myself serious damage, but just to put my mind at rest.  As it is, I picked up the kids as usual in the afternoon, had a reasonably early night, and woke up this morning feeling much better.

But I have a confession.  When I put my sons to bed last night, I made sure that I gave them proper hugs, and told them that I loved them.  Not that I don't do that most evenings, but you know how rushed these things can be at the end of a long fraught bedtime routine.  And whilst we were going through our own long fraught bedtime routine last night, I remembered a woman that I met when Boy #1 first started nursery.  I didn't get to know her well; we'd only chatted a couple of times at the school gate before she left London on a short trip with her 2 year old and her new born son to go and visit her parents in the US, to introduce them to the newest member of her family.

You've probably guessed that the reason I'm telling you this is because she never came back.  She and her family arrived at her parents, they went to bed, and she - well, she never woke up. She had developed DVT on the flight, and died in her sleep that night as a result of it.

Clearly, this made an impression on me.  I don't think of her often; I have to be honest and admit that I can't even remember her full name, but every now and again her story comes back to me.  And whilst yesterday I knew I was going to be OK, that I hadn't seriously injured myself, the thought kept crossing my mind.  What if?

So without making a big song and dance about it, I made damn sure that my boys knew I loved them when they went to bed last night, and did the same again this evening.  I'm sure it won't last long, this new initiative - probably only as long as the next underwear in the loo incident when they get undressed for their bath - but it's already garnered me some extra cuddles and some 'I love you, Mummy's back.

Because you never really know what tomorrow morning might hold.

A week in tweets: #ItSeemedLikeAGoodIdeaAtTheTime

The continually falling snow here is just too too depressing at the moment, so in a bid to cheer myself up I'm posting using Jo's 'Week in Tweets' prompt again (here's my offering from last week).

This time she took as her theme the hashtag #WhyIMovedToBristol. Now, yesterday evening I mused on twitter that I might set up a new blog called 'It Seemed Like a Good Idea At The Time' (relax Husband - never going to happen) and whilst I'm not quite crazy enough to fuel my internet addiction in that way, it did seem a shame to waste the title - so I've used it here as a hashtag instead.

All the events in the following tweets are based on actual happenings - just not, perhaps, in the time frame depicted below...

Monday: A near miss with a Boy, a cookie, & a nut allergy. Decide 2 eschew shopbought & make own cookies from now on. #ItSeemedLikeAGoodIdeaAtTheTime

Tuesday: In high dudgeon announce cafeteria boycott to Boys Headmaster from top of Mount Self-Righteous. #ItSeemedLikeAGoodIdeaAtTheTime

Wednesday: Find have no sugar to make cookies, head to shops to restock. Am caught in traffic; late for Boys pick-up. #ItSeemedLikeAGoodIdeaAtTheTime

Thursday; Make 1st batch of cookies; delicious. But Boys refuse to eat them as they contain raisins. #ItSeemedLikeAGoodIdeaAtTheTime

Friday: Make 2nd batch; also delicious. Boys love them and refuse all other forms of sustenance except pizza. #ItSeemedLikeAGoodIdeaAtTheTime

Saturday: Get on scales and discover the *cough* 1 or 2 raisin cookies I saved from bin are still with me: #ItSeemedLikeAGoodIdeaAtTheTime

Sunday: Find Husband-sized hole in cookie jar; now none left. Go to make more - but have run out of sugar... #ItSeemedLikeAGoodIdeaAtTheTime

Do you bubble-wrap your children?

Well, do you?

I'm asking because, whilst I try not to, sometimes I wonder if I should. A couple of weekends ago Boy #1 had a nasty accident on a sledging hill. He was knocked into the path of an oncoming sledge and ended up with a deep cut that needed 5 stitches, just above one eye. And when I say 'just above one eye' I mean, just above one eye. As it was, he's just been left with a scar and a story and no lasting damage, but a centimeter further south and he might have lost his eye. It doesn't bear thinking about.

But that's just it.

Should I think about it?

Accidents like this happen to kids all the time. They're part of growing up, those broken bones and scars, aren't they? And yet, if the worst had happened, how could I live with myself that I hadn't made him wear some kind of a helmet?

It seems molly-coddling in the extreme of course, to suggest that an 8 year old boy should wear a helmet when he goes sledging, and yet it was icy - which I knew - and we live in Russia where emergency care, whilst excellent in this instance, is not as easily obtainable as back in the UK - which I also knew. So was I being neglectful by allowing him to be out there without wearing a helmet which, for all I know, may have made no difference in this instance?

Or was I simply allowing him to be an 8 year old boy and do the things that 8 year boys do, picking up the injuries that 8 year old boys acquire in the process?

In my saner moments, I know it's the latter. But sometimes, I still wonder; should I bubble wrap my children?

Just a small request...

In the last seven days I have...

• Unwittingly started a revolution in food safety procedures at our school's cafeteria. This was a direct result of giving one of my children a chocolate chip cookie purchased from there only to discover - via a race to the medical office where they hold our anti-histmanines and a thankfully still un-used eip-pen - that the chocolate chips were, in fact nuts. (The helpful member of staff responsible for making the cookies in the cafeteria kitchen decided to substitute the chocolate chips they had run out of with nuts - without actually telling anyone.)

• Collected the same child, on a different day, from school, to be warned by his teacher that she thought he was a little 'under the weather'. We got home, where he proceeded throw up spectacularly all over the kitchen floor. This did not phase me however, since I was just thanking my lucky stars that we had got out of the car 4 minutes earlier and he had taken his snow suit off 2 minutes earlier. Let's see; sick on the lino, or all over the inside of the car, my son, and his brother? Call me glass half-full, but I know which I prefer...

• Rushed to hospital with the other child (have you noticed how they hate to be upstaged by their siblings?) after he had a major collision while sledging on an ice run and needed 5 stitches just above one eye.

So, if anyone up there is listening, can we have a slightly calmer week this time around, please?

Of Easter Bunnies and conversation

Ladies, I would like to raise a toast. A toast to a shy, retiring individual who brings pleasure to many and relief (in his role as Fall Guy) to countless more. A creature who brings manna from heaven in one hand, and dispenses justice with the other. Who's rather large feet are at odds with his cute little nose, and who's only fault is to leave raisin-like droppings on my parents' lawn...

You know who I'm talking about, don't you?

Yes, let us thank the lord for the existence of the Easter Bunny. Because - and if you have kids, you know this - the Easter Bunny is not just for Easter Sunday, oh no. His shift starts earlier than that; pretty much as soon as those purty foil-wrapped eggs appear in the shops and make their existence known to small Boys.

This angel picks up where Father Christmas leaves off, in fact. Since around the beginning of March he's been checking that toys are tidied away, and books are put back on the shelves. He's been policing the brushing of teeth and the using of napkins at the table. He's quite strict in his own way; if he says 'just one story tonight' he means it. And woe betide the Boy who climbs out bed and runs woohooing round the flat when he's meant to be dropping off to sleep at the end of a long day. (Although admittedly it seems he took an early night yesterday and Boy #2's rampage passed under the radar).

However.

Just in case you've been living in a cave for the last few days and haven't noticed the chocolate frenzy going on in shops, with grown women fighting over the last Barbie and Ben 10 licenced eggs, Easter Sunday is tomorrow. And the Easter Bunny will have come good on his side of the deal with the Boys - chocolate for good behaviour - by around midday.

What the hell am I going to use to incentivise them after that?


And in other news (and as a tribute to Millenium Housewife who I really hope doesn't mind):

Things I have said to Boy #2 today...

Let's go and use the loo.
No, not me, you.
OK, I will too.
But I just sat down!
OK, let me just... Right, you go now.
Do you need to sit that far back?
Doesn't it hurt your legs to sit like that?
But if you sit that far back you'll wee on the...
OK, off you get.
Yes, I know that your bottom is wet. That's because you sat so far back.
And don't stand there, you'll get your socks wet too...
Take them off, then.
Now, are you finished?
Completely finished?
Come over here and pull up your trousers then.
Off you go.
What do you mean you need a poo too?
What do you mean 'it's too late?'
No, don't tell me. I know what 'too late' means.