Grandma and grandpa were babysitting when I broke my arm as a two year old. We had a metal stool with two steps. I climbed to the top to show them my best superman spin, yelling “up, up, and away.” Then I jumped up and spiraled downward from one platform to the next with a loud whack.
I did not fuss for too long, or complain much that night, because I wanted to be tough. The next day I could not raise my glass of milk at the breakfast table. That’s when my mom noticed the red line of a clear break.
The doctor actually did not believe the grandma and grandpa story. He attempted to put my arm back in socket while accusing my parents over and over of possible abuse. I winced with every jolt of my arm. Finally he realized that the “really active” two year old story was not a lie.
I remember my favorite part of the cast experience was getting signatures on my little cast. Someone even drew Bert and Ernie. My least favorite remembrance was trying to sleep with that obstruction knocking me in the head every time I tried to roll over.
It brought new meaning to the words, “terrible twos,” but I was ready to run, play, climb, and jump off more things soon enough.