“My arm is actually broken daddy” (it wasn’t)

Yesterday was an inset day at the school. The boy misheard me on Sunday night when I told him of this; he thought he had an insect day. Turns out we were both right as wifey ended up taking them to Whipesnade Zoo and it’s Bug week.

So when I got a call offering me a lift home via a detour from the zoo, I said yes please. I was presented with a car full of exhausted children, two of whom had refused to hold a millepede but had spent an excessive amount of time on the play area. Good job we’re members or that would have been annoying.

The boy however was adamant he’d broken his arm. There was whimpering, calls for a plaster, and a trip to the doctors AFTER he’d had his tea. I was unconvinced, but aware of the need to look into it after the NHS took three attempts to diagnose his broken foot a few years back.

When we got home them, I asked him to take his t shirt off and compared his arm. His “poorly” arm was a bit warmer than the other, and this can be a sign of trauma. There were no signs of swelling or bruising though, so I promised to keep an eye on it and take the matter as seriously as I should.

you can trust me daddy, honest

After dinner the kids, revitalised by homemade burgers, dig a prolonged bout of breakdancing and all seemed well. That lad can sure pop some moves, and his one handed handstands using his “poorly” arm were mightily impressive. However as we called time on the activities and started up to get ready for bed, the cries of “my arms actually broken!” started again, this time with tears. Unfortunately, however convincing the act was, I wasn’t buying it. It was the wrong arm.

So I decided to play along. Definitely too late for the doctors, time I think to amputate. The boy showed concern. In fact, I said, we might as well chop it off at the shoulder just to be sure. He was reticent, suggesting a simple plaster would be enough. I was firm though, I gave him a cuddle and muttered something about properly chopping it off with a light saber. Perhaps I pushed it a little too far, given how tired he obviously was but I wanted to make sure he knew that crying wolf with trauma injuries is a bad idea.

I think he got the idea, because rather than sitting next to me for the bedtime story, just to be on the safe side, he sat the other side of Fifi. Well out of amputation range.

Injuries in kids are difficult to spot at times. The hospital was adamant that his broken metatarsals were nothing but attention seeking. Fortunately, on our third visit a different consultant took a look and took the time to do it properly. His foot wasn’t very swollen but it was a lot hotter than the other, and this is a sure sign of trauma, something the x-rays proved. I’m glad we were persistent, and despite joking about chopping his arm off, I will be keeping an eye on it. Just to be on the safe side.