Why do My Kids Keep Breaking Themselves?

So. We'd managed about seven months since last night's emergency room visit. Seven months ago my daughter decided a go-cart made a great flying missile - at least until it hits a solid object and breaks your wrist. Seven whole months.

Six months before that, my son tripped over the dog. Tripped. Over. The. Dog. He tripped over the dog and broke a bone in his foot. This required me to take him on crutches to a baseball game by myself because my husband was out of town. On his final doctor's appointment, we got trapped in the elevator. In the summer. With an alarm blaring at brain melting levels. Two emergency people had to pry to doors open to release us.

Before that, the last one was, let's see, Nick's arm broken below the shoulder when some kid stepped on him in Tumble Drum play place. Said place happened to be hosting my daughter's eight birthday party. Thank god for grandparents.

Before that, Nick again and his collarbone. He was three, jumping on the bed, fell off. Broken collar bone.

Before that. My daughter broke her three-year-old wrist when my former sister-in-law's mother accidentally caught her between a shopping cart and a post outside the front entrance of Wal-Mart. This is the same wrist she would break in exactly the same place while riding a go-cart in 2006.

So last night. My baseball loving son has had his last two games and three practices rained out. The weather is clear. He finally gets to play. He gets up to bat. He's looking great - Albert Pujols stance, rotating bat. He's ready. The pitcher winds up and throws once, twice, thrice. Nick strikes out. Ah ha. You thought something was going to happen there, didn't you? But no.

It's time for his team to take the outfield. He's assigned to first base, one of his favorite positions. Everyone is getting warmed up. He rolls a grounder to the third baseman, who catches it and throws it back to Nick. Hard. And into his right eye. Nick lost the baseball in the lights, but it found him.

He goes down like he's been shot. I run out to the field. They sit him up. The nose piece on his glasses has cut a gash in the corner of his eye and its bleeding. And his nose is bleeding. And his eye, in the space of ten seconds, has swollen shut and attainted a bright purple shade, much like eggplant.

So off to the emergency room we go again. He's probably fine. Right? Just a precaution. They check his eye, make sure the cornea isn't scratched. Probe around a bit to see if there is any pain in the bone around his eye. No worries. Let's do a CT scan to make sure, the doctor says. It's probably not broken.

The second the doctor walks in, I know it's broken. I can see it in the surprise on his face. Nick's orbital bone around the eye is fractured. In two places. We've spent three hours in the emergency room - actually quite short given our history. We get home about 1 a.m. Today I took him to the eye doctor and he referred us to a plastic surgeon who will decide if he needs surgery. The short end to this long story of my children's brokeness is this. I'm tired of going to the emergency room.

Don't get me wrong. Thank you god, that we have insurance and good medical care here in the good ole U.S. of A. But I'm tired of being thankful for it. I tired of calling to make doctor's appointments and having them tell me, don't call us, we'll call you back when we have nothing better to do. Sit there by the phone. No, you may not talk to a human being.

When we got stuck in the elevator, I tried to call the doctor we had just visited for help. Couldn't get a human. Thought no one was going to know we were trapped. Ever. We would just mummify in this hot box in the parking garage while people actually ignored my cries for help

But that's okay. My baby is going to be fine. I'm going to be fine. We're all going to be fine. But it ends here. I forbid any more injuries. I will have it no more. I shake my fist at the universe and give it an evil look. Cut it out or I'll... I'll.... Well, I don't know. But universe, you don't want to find out.