A failure to communicate

About a week ago, my oldest son broke the bones in his forearm. He has a cast now, but is having trouble adjusting to the idea that he has to be careful with it, especially during our visit with his cousins in Texas.

“No,” I said, pulling him away from the trampoline. “You can’t do that.”

“But – ”

“Listen,” I said. “The doc said your bones shifted and that we have to be really careful with the arm.”

“I know, but – ”

“If the bones don’t heal right, you know what they have to do?”

He shook his head.

“They have to break them again and reset them. It’s crazy painful, and then we start with the cast all over again.”

His eyes widened.

“And if that doesn’t work, they put in steel pins to hold the bones in place.”

He looked positively pale now.

“Now you get it,” I said. “We have to be careful. No falling, no bumping, no jumping. You have to be careful.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I won’t fall on the trampoline. I’ll just do little jumps. I won’t bump into anyone.”


“Why not?”

“Cause I’m a completely unreasonable grumpy old man.”

“But – ”


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