Despite his owning his very own Barbie, my son is about as boy as they come. If there is the smallest patch of mud anywhere within a seven block vicinity of his person he will find it, and wear it. If there is something to climb, or jump from, he’ll do it, repeatedly. I keep telling Jonathan we need to get the boy a punching bag, because he just needs an outlet sometimes.
Anyway, he’s all boy, so he’s often sporting bumps, bruises and scrapes from his masculine exploits. We just kiss them and he moves on. Wednesday at lunch the Cheesedoodle came to Jonathan pointing at his foot. He wasn’t crying, he was just bringing it to his daddy’s attention. Jonathan kissed it (the things parents do that we wouldn’t do even for each other!) and the boy went about his day. I didn’t think anything more about it.
Wednesday evening we came in side far later than we normally would because it was just beautiful outside and the children were playing happily and I was visiting with Suzanne, and there was just no incentive to come in. Regardless, we did, eventually, come in for supper and shortly after coming into the house, the cheesedoodle began to cry. I chalked it up to hungry/tired/being inside and just focused on getting him his spaghetti (one of his favorites).
He cried all the way through eating his spaghetti, but did actually eat it, and I was sinfully impatient with him. I finally got him down from eating and set him on the floor, telling him to go to the bathroom for a bath.
He sat on the floor.
Exasperated, I picked him up and carried him to the bathroom, telling him that being tired was no excuse to disobey. He was crying and miserable from the short walk down the hall, and when I set him on the counter to undress him, he rested his head on my chest, still crying.
I removed his shirt, then tugged off his shorts in a roughly playful manner that usually cheers him out of the bed time crankies. This time it made him wince and pull away from me.
That was when I noticed that his left foot and ankle was almost twice the size of his right. It was pink and had that shiny look skin gets when it is stretched so tight it seems like it might burst, or crack like a melon.
I felt TERRIBLE! I immediately gave him ibuprofen for the pain and swelling, but had to put him in the tub in order to assess the full situation. He had been playing outside (on his feet) for almost three hours. His feet were filthy and I couldn’t tell if he’d suffer an insect sting, or an injury.
Unfortunately, a bath did little to solve the mystery. There was no obvious sting or puncture in the foot, but the swelling was so uniform (and he’s only two!) that it just seemed unlikely to be an injury. I laid him down, with the foot elevated on a rolled up blanket, and iced it while the Mackerdoodle had her bath. As the ice helped the swelling to abate somewhat, a bruise began to appear around his ankle and I had to assume that it had been injured, but when?
Thursday morning it was still swollen and tender, so in the end I called the doctor and after seeing him, she ordered x-rays. The cheesedoodle was a super champ in the x-ray room, receiving high praise from the technicians for his bravery and patience.
The final diagnosis was a sprain with instructions to ice and elevate. Hello? Ever met a 2 year old? Today he’s fine, running around and playing and jumping off things he’s climbed onto. We still have no idea how he hurt it, and we’re left wondering, how many two -year-olds sprain their ankles? I get the distinct feeling he hasn’t seen his last x-ray machine.