At a playdate this week where a friend stopped by with her son, the kids ran upstairs to play. Up into the bedroom where they usually play, with Lego, or the iPad or one of the other nine hundred and seventy seven toys that are up there inside their space. Not five minutes into it, came giggles, then a bang – a big bang.
One of the biggest bangs that we’ve heard from up there in a long, long time. Followed by cries that weren’t coming from my kid, and screams that weren’t coming from my kid.
Immediately, I figured that one of the kids fell off of the top bunk in the big sister’s room, the one that the kids were told not to play in.
I was right.
Laying on the floor, crying, Kyle was on the floor screaming and holding his arm.
I felt awful – it could have happened anywhere. They’ve played upstairs while we chatted and had coffee a million times before – but this was the first time that one of the kids had actually gotten hurt.
I let the kids share a freezie, but he was still holding his arm and still crying when his Mom picked him up. I suggested they leave to get his little arm examined, maybe an x-ray.
Not much older than my own daughter, I felt terrible that it happened at our house, playing somewhere that they’ve played so often before. I’m going to feel even more terrible if it results in the tiny kid having a ruined summer with a cast anywhere near that arm.