My five year old son Ian hurt his foot on a doorway at a party Sunday. At first, I shivered as flashbacks of his Aunt Amanda breaking her big toe last summer came flooding in, but after squeezing every bone and asking if we should go to the hospital, it was determined he would be fine (eventually). For the past few days, he has either been limping, or running freely with wild abandon. Its obvious he feels pain, but he quickly forgets about it if given the opportunity.
My son hates visits to the doctor. I think he likes the guy, but he hates the process. And if you mention shots (vaccinations), we experience massive tantrums and hanging on to doorways as we try to leave the house. He just won’t put up with the agony.
This morning, Ian limped and moped his way out of bed (I wonder where he gets it). I would barely put any pressure on his left foot, and when I said it was time to get ready to leave for preschool, he apparently decided any pressure on his foot would result in a fatality. I called my Mom to see if he had been in pain when she watched him yesterday, and she said he was fine. I decided it would be worth the parental exhaustion to try to get him to school.
However, as I watched Ian get ready as fast as a sloth, and wimpering like an abused puppy, I realized something must be done. I told Ian I would go ahead and call the doctor and schedule an appointment, and that they’d probably give him a shot and do surgery. I didn’t stop there.
I picked up my phone, and the following conversation ensued: “Hello Doctor, this is Kelly, Ian’s mom. He hurt his foot, and I’m wondering what we should do. Oh, so he does need a shot… and surgery too? Wow. That’s going to hurt a lot. Oh that’s a good point. So you’re saying if he can start walking on his foot and go to school this morning, he won’t need stitches. Ok. Well, that’s good to hear. Thanks, bye.”
Ian promptly put his coat on, zipped it up, and walked out the door. I didn’t even have to talk to a real doctor.