This Saturday was a fairly normal Saturday. The husband and I slept in kinda late, rushed around making a meal to take to some folks who just had a baby, then went on to D's baseball game where his team suffered an 18-3 blowout, but where D also received the game ball for two awesome hits he made during the game, so we left with smiles on our faces and headed home to enjoy the rest of the afternoon.
I dropped my daughter M at her friend's house one street over from our house and then ran to Publix to purchase a $4.95 filet so I could recreate my new favorite dish of steak and eggs with home fries that I had recently eaten at 55 South in Franklin. I knew I could make it at home for much less than the almost $16 price tag at the restaurant (not that I minded paying that at the time, of course) (also it's football season now so going to brunch on a Sunday with my husband is a no-go, so instead of pouting I decided to try making the dish myself). I spent nearly an hour making two batches of Hollandaise sauce (the first of which broke) before searing the filet and cooking two eggs over easy whilst frying up some potatoes to create my replica of this restaurant dish.
My mouth was watering as I grabbed my plate of decadent food, some Sprite and my cell phone to head into my room so I could hide from the boys and eat my food in peace, but before I could even make it out of the kitchen my cell phone rang with a number I didn't recognize. When I answered, there was a man on the line telling me that M had come to his house with another friend (the one whose house I dropped her at originally) to play with his daughter, a fellow classmate from school, and in the course of being Olympic gymnast-wannabes, M's hand had inadvertently been injured and that I should probably come get her. I glanced longingly at my plate of food and let out a very, very big pouty sigh, then got in my Yukon and went to pick up M. The second I saw her hand, I knew my delicious lunch was going to be replaced by a trip to the urgent care clinic. My husband confirmed that her hand was not ok so I and my hysterically crying M made our way to the walk in clinic. Diagnosis: two broken fingers. Pointer and middle on her right hand. After several hours at the clinic waiting on a pediatric radiologist from Vanderbilt Children's hospital to read her x-rays, they "buddy taped" her fingers up, wrapped her hand in a splint, put her arm into a sling and then sent us on our way with some pain medicine and instructions to go see an orthopedic surgeon first thing Monday morning.
I feel like if it were me with those broken fingers, I would be laying in the bed crying and cursing gymnastics forever and taking as much pain medicine as was medically safe. My sweet daughter, on the other hand, has put me to absolute shame. She is such a bad ass. No joke. Her hand is grotesquely swollen and bruised and her index finger, the one that suffered the worst break, is all crooked and weird looking. What did she decide to do? She decided to train herself to write with her left hand so she wouldn't get behind on any of her school work. She sat in her room cheerfully singing along with the music on her tv's music station, practicing her alphabet and writing words that started with each letter of the alphabet and proudly showing me her progress. She smiles and giggles and talks non-stop and just goes about her day like nothing is wrong.
The mother of one of the girls M was playing with when she got hurt showed up today at our house with the cutest cupcakes and two very sweet, heartfelt cards, which made M feel like a million bucks and treated her and our entire family to some delicious homemade confections.
None of my kids have ever had a broken bone, so maybe this is par for the course. I don't know. I'm of the mindset that any hangnail or paper cut I get is most definitely life-threatening and may require surgery and/or amputation and I probably need to discuss in great detail the anguish I am suffering with everyone from my co-workers to the cashiers at the grocery store. To see this tiny little 55-pound wisp of a girl happily bouncing around with two terribly broken bones is a lesson in humility that I didn't ever want, because it means my daughter is in an awful lot of pain, but I would do well to learn from it. Not that I will be any less of a baby the next time I bump my elbow, though. IT HURTS. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW.
M, you are my hero. I love you. Rock on, sweet girl.