In case of an emergency, hit me.

So I spent the greater part of my morning in the Insta-care -- Utah's local alternative to the ER. Last evening The Boy managed to fall on his arm wrong. He cried some, but not tons -- that's a good sign, right? His arm was swollen at the elbow, and he had no desire whatsoever to straighten it out, so it wasn't just a little owie. But I, going against my Injuries & Crises history, waited til this morning to take him in. That's a bigger deal than you realize. In my earlier first-aid moments, I'd have rushed him, cradled in my arms, straight into the emergency room, not even bothering with a car. I'd have run him there. On foot. Lots faster than a car. Okay, so there's a little drama in my blood. What can I say?

Don't worry, it was a good call. It turns out nothing was broken, it was probably just "a good sprain," whatever that means. I mean, really, is there such a thing as a good sprain? The very definition of a sprain is

"a violent straining or wrenching of the parts around a joint, without dislocation." (Thank you, dictionary.com.)

Those aren't good words. Violent. Straining. Wrenching. If I'm understanding it correctly, a sprain is the moment right before the break. How's that good?

But I digress. Apparently, I've been known to freak out a bit. Oh, I never felt like I was freaking out. In my head, I was calm and collected, the very image of strength and stability in a time of stress. Ha.

Let us consider a day two years ago -- almost to the day, ironically enough -- when The Boy incurred a similar injury. All of the kids and Dave were in the living room, playing some game that I'm still a little vague on. I know it somehow involved marshmallows and jumping off the back of the wing chair, which of course, sounds really stupid. I mean, duh, let your kids jump off the furniture and someone's bound to break an arm. But since it was "supervised" by dad, how bad could it be?

Well they're all playing and laughing their heads off, when after one particular thump, I heard crying mingled with the laughter -- obviously someone was hurt (bad, by the sound of the crying), and no one had else realized it yet. And then I hear Dave repeating The Boy's name several times and saying, "Just let me look at it." I listened for what I thought was probably 4 or 5 minutes before bursting in to save the day -- plenty of time to let Dave take the lead in this thing. After all, there was no need to go rushing in too soon to come to the rescue.

In all likelihood, I actually waited 4 or 5 seconds. When I came into the living room, The Boy was standing with Dave's hands supporting him a bit. He was still crying and holding his arm, but just as I entered the room, he kind of just slumped over. Dave, of course, still had him, so he carefully lowered him to the floor, where I went directly. I've never seen one of my kids pass out, and I admit, it was a little disheartening. But I mustered my coolness and assessed the situation. Calmly (I thought), I smoothed his hair back and rubbed his cheeks softly as I said his name. His response was to roll his head and eyes a bit. Just as I suspected. Now was my moment to shine. Feeling perfectly cool and in control, I announced to the room in general, "He's in shock!" Dave, of course, is thinking, "Really? Brilliant! Thank heavens you told us!" and the kids all freak out. The oldest girls start crying, the younger girls are asking, "What does that mean? Is he gonna be okay?" And I'm thinking, "Hey, hey, guys. What's the problem? No need to panic."

It wasn't until later that I realized that the kids were actually all fine until I showed up to "diagnose" the situation. Everybody, he's in shock! Well that's helpful. I think they picked up on my freaked out vibes and all hope for a calm situation was out the window. Good thing I was there to give them the cue to panic.

Yeah, that was pretty good (in the good sprain way?), but another time, my oldest, Kam, had her best friend over. It was night-ish, 9 or 10 or so, and the doorbell rang. I answered it to find the best friend's oldest sister. She briefly told me that her dad had blown out his knee playing Church Ball, and they were heading to the emergency room. My job was to have her sister stay here until they could get back. Got it, I said, and headed downstairs to do my duty. Here it comes. Everyone, he's in shock!

"L," I began. Not wanting to forget anything, I paused and then in one breath said, "I don't want to freak you out or anything, but I guess your dad blew out his knee playing basketball and your sister just stopped by to tell me they're on the way to the emergency room and you've gotta stay here til they get back, I'm sure he'll be fine, but it could be pretty late, you know how those knees can be, painful and hard, so just get comfy, you're gonna be here awhile."

She stared at me blankly for a second and then said, "Okay, what?" And then I did it again! Instead of finding some more delicate, less hurried approach to the whole thing, I pretty much just repeated the mindless truth!

And now, the spokeswoman for delicacy, me.

Then there was the time I followed the wails of my RyBread to her room to find her covered from nose to toes in blood. She'd been pulled off her bed and had hit her nose, and I, in the He's in Shock Tradition, announced, "Oh, it's broken for sure!!" Helpful.

There are a thousand more of these stories, one for almost every first aid emergency at my house. I think I should just stick to the band-aid on the finger and a kiss on the owie and leave the diagnoses to the capable hands of my Dave. I'm just glad I'm easing up on the whole thing -- I can tell the freak-outs are lessening with time... at least I hope they are. I know it's not gone completely, though. Last night I asked Dave if it was time to make the announcement. It never was. He never went into shock. ...Now what?