Published: August 10, 2008 01:27 am      

GUERILLA MOTHERING: It’s all fun and games even after someone gets hurt

Life is what happens when you’re making other plans. Boys will be boys. Everyone says these things, and they’re true, but making your first trip to the ER for a broken bone in your preschooler is still traumatic — for Mom.

Boys are physical, they love to grapple and push one another, I get that. But when one of my sons broke his brother’s collarbone, I sort of lost my mind.

I don’t want to yell at my kids. I really don’t. I don’t think it teaches them anything except that Mommy can really let ‘er rip. Lately, I’ve been counting to ten-a lot-trying to keep myself from blasting the children for doing what comes naturally — roughing each other up.

Last Sunday, as I was attempting to make some headway on our legendary laundry situation, the boys were chasing each other and staging Star Wars reenactments in the middle of my folding station. I remember saying to them (and I still regret using this wording) “If you want to fight, please go do it downstairs in your playroom.”

They took me at my word. About five minutes later, my 5-year-old son was crying. I sat down my pile of towels and tee shirts and called down to the boys. “Is everything OK?”

Seamus had been a little needy lately, so I fully expected him to cry for a few more minutes, then move on to some other form of play. Instead, the crying continued-and while not louder than normal, there was an unusual timbre to his voice.

Thinking perhaps it was time for a group time-out, I brought all three of the kids upstairs, and made them a comfy “bed” on the living room floor out of blankets. I figured we’d pop in a movie, make some popcorn, and just chilax. They’d obviously gotten too worked up and there was no way I was going to make any headway with that laundry if Seamus didn’t calm himself.

The other two boys complied with my plan, but Seamus could not stop crying. He said his shoulder hurt, and I got him an ice pack and even gave him some chewable Tylenol. I wondered if he’d popped his shoulder out of joint or something. I truly had no idea. When I asked the boys what had happened, all I was able to surmise was that Seamus had his eyes closed when Sam “got” him with some kind of unintentional sneak attack.

After about an hour of some completely forgettable movie, Seamus tried to stand up to go to the restroom, and he started crying again. That was when I knew something was definitely wrong. I called in reinforcements to watch the other two, and within minutes, Seamus and I were in the hospital’s emergency room-waiting.

I still thought that it was probably a sore shoulder from a dislocated joint or something, but I’m glad I decided not to take any chances. I’d never broken one of my own bones, so I just didn’t assume my little kids were capable of doing that sort of thing to one another-but that’s exactly what it was.

After a four-hour wait to see a physician, a five-minute X-ray confirmed that Seamus had a broken collarbone. A half-hour after the X-ray, near the stroke of midnight, he came home in a sling to hold his arm and shoulder still while the break heals.

He was such a trooper, even going to bed that night without any pain medication. He spent the next day in bed watching Veggie Tales, and eating special treats his grandma had put together for him.

At first, this little man was the model patient — but less than a week after the break, Seamus is so bored of convalescence that I wonder if he will now ever sit still long enough to heal.

First he wanted to get in the swimming pool, then there were the water guns. I’m not SuperMom, but even I won’t allow a kid with a broken bone to run intentionally on wet grass with even a water-filled weapon.

Next came the swingset.

While I was picking tomatoes in the garden, Seamus convinced his brother-turned-man-servant Sam to twist him up, belly-down, on a swing, so he could spin around like a helicopter. Even though I told him not to do it again, he has. Over and over again. I’m at the point now where I’ve realized it doesn’t hurt him all the much, as much as it scares me, personally, to see him whirling around in a dervish of chains and plastic.

Finally, there’s the problem with his boy’s independent streak.

We’ve worked so hard to teach these kids to take care of themselves however possible. He’s used to dressing and undressing himself, so he takes the sling off all by himself whenever he pleases, even though his father has used his Almighty Daddy Voice to convince him otherwise.

Just recently, Seamus took it off and moved his arm around, as if he were testing to see if it still hurt. He won’t get in the bathtub, so we have to sponge-bathe him, and he’s kinda smelly. Since he refuses to wear any shirt that doesn’t have a picture on the front (preferably a super hero), getting him dressed is becoming a challenge. Luckily for us, his grandmother is willing to modify all his shirts to unsnap on the sides, so we can slide his arm in and out without moving it much. Most families aren’t that lucky, I know.

Lastly, there’s discipline problems springing up all around this situation. If I ask Sam to help Seamus buckle his carseat, only to turn around and find Seamus kicking Sam in the face, who gets disciplined, and how? When one has a broken bone, there are few privileges Mom can afford to take away. And extra work? Forget it. He’s barely able to pull his “weight” now.

I always hoped that my kids would have a minimum of injuries to deal with, but I was solely thinking of their health and safety-not mine. I was so naïve-I never realized how hard a struggle it would be for me, as a mom, dealing with the “boys will be boys” dynamic in the face of a mending bone.

More than anything, I want to teach them compassion, and how to care for one another in kind, practical ways — life skills, you know. Sure, I could lie to you and say I’m the model of patience right now, but the truth is: all the rules are out the window. I’m holding on tight and just hoping I come out of this experiencing having learned something — even if it’s only to never again tell my boys to go “fight in the basement.”



Leslea M. Harmon is a wife, mother and freelance writer in New Albany. She can be reached online via her Web site at lmharmon.com, or through e-mail at Leslea.Harmon@gmail.com.