My 6-year-old son and I played our first real game of catch today. He threw overhand accurately; when I threw underhand, he caught the ball most of the time, and when I threw overhand, he wasn't afraid. He was so proud.

It was a week after buying the kids new bikes, and four days before our camping trip. We were with friends and family at the park, a nice place with a playground, bike path, splash pad, and ice cream stand, right next to a beach. I brought my daughter to art class that morning, so I had my wife's car. She packed the minivan and we met at the park. I left the car down the street because the lot at the park was full.

I sat in the shade of a tree after checking on my seven-year-old son, who had gone over to the playground, about 125 feet away. I was talking to my nephew when my wife jumped up; a stranger was calling her name, pointing to the playground. I ran over in time to hear "…I think it was his head." I looked, but my son wasn't at the playground any more. I felt sick. Then a commotion by the splash pad caught my eye. Another stranger was carrying my son, running along the front of the park looking frantic. It was difficult to hear over the sounds of all the children playing, but my son was screaming.

My wife and I ran down to them. The woman carrying my son said, "I think his foot is hurt pretty badly. He took a nasty fall." I looked at my son and saw an ugly bump on his foot. He was screaming for somebody to call 911. I asked where it hurt, and he pointed to his foot, saying ,"I walked into the air," but was hysterical and couldn't be much clearer. It seemed there was no head injury, but there was obviously a broken bone. I told my wife to pack up.

I took him to a puddle at the edge of the splash pad to keep his foot in cool water while somebody ran for ice. My son became more agitated. "No, it hurts! I need an ambulance! Call 911! I need to go to the hospital!" I tried to ask him what happened, but he couldn't calm down enough to explain. Somebody handed me a bag of ice, which I managed to keep on his foot while running to the parking lot. The hospital was only a few minutes away.

I don't actually remember how the car got from the lot down the street to the no parking zone, but the parking attendant came right over, oblivious to the screaming child I was buckling into the back seat. It didn't take much more than a nasty look to send him on his way.

My son was still screaming. I stretched one arm back to keep his foot elevated while I drove. There was traffic due to a car accident. I called my wife and told her to take a different route. My son was out of his mind. He was asking why we weren't moving, begging for an ambulance, then he started crying, "I want Mama!" over and over.

We got to the hospital at the same time. There were no wheelchairs available so I carried my son into the emergency room lobby. I tried to comfort him while my wife did the paperwork. His ice had melted, so another patient gave us his. The father of another patient found a cloth to wrap the ice in. Somebody else insisted that the staff find a wheelchair. People were being very kind. My son kept asking when he would get a cast. He knew without being told that he had a broken bone.

I saw the x-ray when it appeared on the monitor. His second metatarsal was broken and displaced. The technician said she wasn't allowed to diagnose, but couldn't hide her expression. A few minutes later, the doctor surprised us with the news that three bones were broken. The third and fourth metatarsals were less severely fractured. He said it had taken quite a bit of pressure to cause the injury.

By then, we had mostly worked out what had happened. At one corner of the play structure is a pole to slide down. My son reached for the pole and missed. It's more than a six foot drop. He screamed for help. Somebody asked his mother's name, and people scattered to look for her. He thought she was at the splash pad, so somebody carried him there, but she had just brought our three-year-old niece up for a snack. Seconds after I turned my back, he fell. Within a minute, he was in our arms. It seems like forever.

But now he has a bright orange cast – and it's waterproof. (No hassles in the tub or pool, but we bought a latex cover to keep sand out at the beach.) He's mastering the smallest crutches I've ever seen, but gets pulled around in our Radio Flyer wagon for longer distances. He's loving the attention (he even sang karaoke at the campground), and is happy to be excused from swimming lessons. He'll be in the cast a couple of extra weeks because of the nasty break, but he'll be okay. And the pangs of guilt are fading.

Glad to hear he's OK. You did nothing wrong. Kids get hurt (you should hear the stories about my parents!!)

Thanks for sharing.

Don't I know it. It's a wonder my parents weren't prematurely gray.

My son laughed when I told him I didn't break my third bone until about the age of fifteen, and never broke more than one at a time. He is rather proud to have reached close to half of his dad's lifetime fracture count in one go. :)

Perspective
 

As an old guy (75 on Sunday) with 3 kids and 7 teen-aged grandkids I can say that you seem to have made all the right moves. It is basically impossible to prevent children from getting hurt and trying too hard to do so really amounts to overprotection. Boys in particular get hurt because their assessment of risk is very different from little girls. Girls ask themselves "Can I get hurt?". Boys ask "How bad could it be?" and then take the risk. I, my son and my grandsons have been hurt much more often than my wife, two daughters, or any of the 5 young girls. Most girls are cautious about physical risk, most boys are not; I don't know why.

Wow sounds like a pretty harrowing experience. Glad he's ok.

I actually broke my first bone recently. I managed to make it to 45 without a break. My six year old son jumped on my chest knee first and cracked a rib. LOL the joys of parenting.

Just saw this post as I was about to post here.

My wife found bits of waffle on the floor, and called our seven-year-old boy into the kitchen for an explanation. "It's the five second rule," he said. Asked to explain further, he said "When you drop something on the floor, you have five seconds to pick it up. If you don't pick it up in five seconds, you have to leave it there."

I think that gets to the basic reaction. Boys do things that give them a little charge from having accomplished the impossible or fearful maneuver. They aren't looking forward to getting hurt, it's just a price they might pay when they confront their fear with a close call.

Also, the satisfaction they get when jumping all the way from the coffee table to the top of the sofa without falling off the back. Etc.

I think that's it -- little boys enjoy a challenge even if they've set it up themselves.

This morning, I found my seven-year-old son hobbling around on crutches (souvenirs from his broken foot this summer) because he thought Santa would feel sorry for him and bring more presents.

She recently turned eleven, so I expected her to have outgrown this, but my daughter wrote a letter to Santa. It was a very short, reasonable list. The request that stood out was canned goods that she could to donate to the food pantry. Every once in a while, they show that they haven't ignored everything you try to teach them.