During my boys’ spring break we had to go to the orthopedist to get my seven-year-old’s cast off. Fourteen years of mothering and seven rowdy boys and this was our first broken bone—a buckle fracture of the wrist from falling off a fence after retrieving a ball that went over it, that needed a cast for only two weeks and Tylenol for the pain for only the first day, and I caught my little guy hanging by two hands from the monkey bars the day before he got his cast off (which gives me the willies to even write), so I guess it really wasn’t all that serious, as far as broken bones go. But it warranted a trip to the ER and a cool splint (that everyone had to sign), then a trip to the orthopedist and a cool cast (that everyone had to sign), and two weeks of no gym class, no playing on the playground at recess, and no practicing with his baseball team, so all in all it was more medical excitement than (gratefully) we’re used to.
Going into his cast-removal appointment, I reminded myself that I needed to get a note from the doctor that cleared my boy to resume gym class and recess. But I had the younger four with me, all of whom but the baby insisted on fighting over the toys in the waiting area. Then my broken-wrist boy kept trying to climb up on the exam table without using the stool and I could just picture him falling and breaking his wrist again. Even when he was actually sitting still, he kept holding his broken-wrist hand at a funny angle and saying how weird and “floppy” it felt, and every time he shifted his position on the exam table I was afraid he was going to use his broken-wrist hand to brace himself. Keeping an eye on him while also wrangling my jumpy baby, the five-year-old who can’t sit still, and the nine-year-old who likes to provoke everyone, took every bit of mental energy.
The doctor said his x-rays were great and that he could resume all activities without any restrictions, which is the exact time I should have asked for the note, but did I remember to do so? I did not.
The check-out process took a few minutes, during which I chatted with the lady who was checking me out, which was a perfect time to ask for the note, but did I remember to do so? I did not.
When we were finally able to leave, I scurried everyone back through the waiting room as quickly as I could, got everyone back in the van, seat belts buckled, and got into the driver’s seat and buckled myself in, when I remembered the thing I’d forgotten to ask for: that darned note.
For a fraction of a second I considered unbuckling everyone and herding them all back into the doctor’s office, because I knew if I drove away without that note, I wouldn’t remember to get it before he went back to school after spring break. But I just couldn’t do it—getting the kids in and out of the van is a circus and a workout all in one; I was already sweaty from the first go-round and couldn’t stomach the idea of waiting in the waiting area with them all again either. Some moms are really good at all that; I am not.
I called the office on my cell while sitting in the parking lot, telling myself that if they could get the note for me quickly, I would get everyone out of the van to go back in and get it. But I got put on hold, and I didn’t have the stamina for that either.
I put the van in reverse, knowing the whole time that if I left that parking lot I’d forget to call about it when I got home. I drove out of the parking lot, onto the road and back home, knowing the whole time that my window of opportunity was gone. Not that I wanted it to be, just that I knew “call the doctor for the note” would get lost in the jumble of things rattling around inside my head. Indeed, by the time I pulled into our driveway, I’d completely forgotten.
A few times during the rest of the week I would think, “Oh! I have to call the doctor about the note before spring break is over!” but I never thought of it when I could actually pick up the phone and call, and by the time I could, I’d forgotten again.
Last Monday, the kids went back to school after spring break. My boy had already resumed playing baseball on his team, as well as all normal shenanigans at home and in the backyard, so the fact that he’d even had a cast seemed a distant memory. Had I remembered to call the doctor and get the note to send into school with him? I had not.
Later that Monday morning, I got a call from the school nurse—she needed a note from the orthopedist before she could allow my son to participate in gym or play on the playground at recess. As soon as I got her message, I called the doctor. I was able to pick up the note later that morning and I dropped it off at school when I picked the kids up that afternoon.
One of the questions I get asked the most when people see how many children I have is, “How do you remember everything?” Now you know! But the world doesn’t end and mostly everything ends up getting done eventually, so I just keep plugging away, one day at a time.
Kate and her husband have seven sons ages 14, 12, 10, 9, 7, 5, and 8 months. Follow her at www.facebook.com/kmtowne23, or email her at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..
