SOO.. in my ungodly crazy week, I did not fill all of you voracious readers in on the current illness/injury of The Boy.  Because, quite frankly, he has so many “illnesses” and “injuries” that they are hard to keep up with.  But, for posterity’s sake, I enjoy having a novella of such instances to look fondly back on.

Or, as I like to call them, “birth control”.

During VM rehearsal on Monday night, around eight, I wander into another classroom to make some copies. (Cue Rob Schneider on SNL saying, “Makin’ da cop-peees”.)  Bryan looks pale.  The Boy, he informs me, is on his way to the pediatric ER.  Why, I ask?  Because he injured his knee, and they are just positive he’s blown out his ACL.

(And just as a DUR moment, the injury took place around 4:30.  Why wait until almost 8 p.m. to try the ER?)

Apparently, it’s swollen and he’s loudly complaining about the pain.  Not that The Boy is at all dramatic (have you met his father?!), so it MUST be serious.  We hear little about it after they’ve arrived because, as I can attest after last year’s Ides of March, the wait in the ER is long, tedious, and uneventful.

I guess we started hearing something around midnight.  They finally got into a bed in the ER, were finally in line to see a doctor.  Shortly after midnight, the doctor comes in, xrays the now-exhausted child, and says, “Yep, he’s sprained his knee.  Here’s some crutches, keep him off it.”

(And as another DUR moment, sounds like this detailed prognosis could’ve waited till the next day.)

Regardless, he went back to see an pediatric orthopedic specialist yesterday.  Who xrayed it, and said, “Yep, he’s bruised it.  Keep him off it.  But he can lose the crutches.”

(One more DUR moment: Sarah could’ve done all of this.  Without the crutches.)

SO.  Apparently, he’s become a gimp.  AGAIN.

So Bryan calls as he’s picking The Boy up this weekend.  This is the conversation that ensued.  In a very, very hushed tone.

Okay, so I’m approaching the day care center.  I think he just got off the school bus.. no, no, there he is.  I see him.  He’s running.  That little bastard is running.  Wait, now he’s jumping.  Gimpy, my ass.  That boy is clearly jumping up and down.  I can’t believe this.  Now he’s kicking milk carton.. he seems to be just fi.. oh, wait, he just ran face-first into a fence.  Ohmygod, my child is not a gimp.. he’s a klutz!

So we caught him.  (A completely DUR moment for Sarah, but an epiphany for Bryan.)