I got one of those dreaded midday calls from Lizzy yesterday. Whenever I see her name pop up on the screen of my cell phone, I immediately assume that Avery is dying and I'm about to hear the worst news of my life. Last week I got a call from her, and naturally the panic set in before I even hit the "talk" button. She was wondering if she could take Avery to the park, since it was a nice day outside. Sigh of relief... I've got to stop doing that to myself.
But yesterday the call wasn't about the park. She was calling to tell me that something was wrong with Avery but she didn't know what. She had been acting whiny and sluggish, and was crying off and on and only wanted to be held. She had also only slept for 20 minutes at nap time.
I know my kid well enough (and Lizzy does too) to know that something wasn't adding up. I left work early to pick her up and squeeze in a quick doctor visit before the weekend. When I arrived, Avery was lying across Lizzy's lap, and as soon as she saw me, she burst into tears. Definitely not good. We hurried off and made it to the doctor at 4:30. She was an angel during the visit, and was examined by the nurse and doctor. No fever, no ear infection, lungs sound clear. I told him it was possible that between the time change this week and her lack of nap, that she was just exhausted. He added, "Yeah, and she's two." Good point. So I decided to put her to bed early, and left with some peace of mind. On the way home, I thought about what I would title my blog post, as I seem to keep having the same repeat experience of visiting the doctor and finding out that she's fine, and I'm just crazy and overprotective.
But as the evening wore on, I decided to hold off on writing. My gut was telling me that this story hadn't ended yet. And I was right.
She had trouble sleeping, and after several episodes of waking up crying, I opted to give her a little Tylenol, which did the trick. This morning, she did seem a tad better. She wanted to climb in bed with me and watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. So I snuggled with her while Josh got her cereal ready. I asked her if she wanted to go to dance class or stay home, and she said, "Dance class."
In the parking lot at dance class, I climbed into the back to get her out of her carseat. As I grabbed her right wrist to pull her hand through the strap, she burst into tears.
"Avery, does your arm hurt? Do you have a boo boo?"
"Yes."
I let her stay for class anyway, and observed her just to be sure my hunch was correct. She favored her left hand, couldn't grasp anything heavy with her right, and when the kids got down on the floor to crawl around, she wouldn't put weight on it and asked me to help her up.
So, off to Urgent Care... Again, she was an angel and the nurses cooed over her tutu and ballet shoes and what a good girl she was being. Two x-rays confirmed that Avery did, in fact, break her arm. At the wrist, in two places.
Here's the sad, forlorn picture to make you feel sorry for her:
And here's how she's actually feeling, after a good nap and immobilization of the bones to stop the pain:
We will visit the orthopedic specialist on Monday or Tuesday to trade in the splint for a cast.
I'm hoping she chooses pink.
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