Stick to Your Guns

In the next few weeks, if you see walking down the street a little old lady, hunched over with her hand on the small of her aching back, it's probably me. I'll be carrying an extra forty pounds with me for the next six weeks. No, I didn't win a role in a movie requiring me to eat loads of ice cream to play a larger woman. I wish.

It happened this way. We were headed to my friend's house for dinner. On the way up their 1/2 mile gravel driveway, while concentrating on not running off the side of the road, William began a litany to get me to allow him to use their trampoline.

"No," I told him. "I don't like trampolines. Did you know that most emergency room visits..."

"We know, Mom," the girls said in an exasperated tone. "Trampolines."

I drove on, neatly turning around a 180 degree turn.
William began again.

"Oh PLEAAAASE can I go on the trampoline. OH PLEASE OH PLEASE Why can't I go on the trampoline I'll be careful and jump careful oh please why can't I Mom other people do they have trampolines please why not can't I jump just once please let me jump on the tram-po-leeeeeeeen."

Finally, in a moment of weakness, I said, "OKAY! If you'll shut up for just one minute, you can jump ONE time."

He broke his leg. One time on the trampoline. We spent most of today in the Children's Hospital Emergency room getting an xray and waiting. Can you tell me why it takes HOURS to take and read an xray? Gees, I felt like saying move aside, I'll do it myself. All around us kids were hacking with germs that probably were deadly contagious, but we were trapped.

Anyway, the crack is so tiny I'd have missed it as a shadow had she, the doctor, not pointed it out. He'll be casted and immobile just in time for our annual trip to the beach. Sand in the cast ought to feel good, eh?

My friend felt terrible, but she shouldn't. It was all my fault. I commited the mommy cardinal sin and gave in to achieve a moment of peace. My new mantra is "stick to your guns" and we will definitely be avoiding trampolines.