There is an episode of the Simpsons where a professional yo-yo team visits Bart and Lisa’s school. There is music and laser lights and they can make yo-yos do anything. They are the embodiment of glamour — according to the elementary school set. Every kid gets yo-yo fever; it’s all they want to play with or talk about. The camera pans to Mrs. Crabapple: “I am so sick of yo-yos.”
Right now at Nora’s school it’s not yo-yos, it’s broken legs.
A little girl in Nora’s class broke her leg about a month ago while riding her bike, pretty badly from the sounds of it.
And now she is a rock star.
When we pick Nora up from aftercare, most days there are a room full of kids limping around. Every play silk is a cast. Every stick is a crutch. Every chair is a wheel chair.
“Mom, Jane can do this,” she says holding one leg stiff and hopping along on the other.
“Mom, Jane can stand on her leg without her crutches now.”
“Mom, Jane’s getting her cast off tomorrow, so don’t ask her how her leg is doing because she’s getting the cast off.” (I don’t think this was true.)
A few nights ago, Nora spent no less than twenty minutes attempting to wrap a small silk handkerchief around her calf. I finally helped her wrap it, as our bedtime routine was being delayed. Then a walked away for a second and heard her, in tears, telling her daddy, “Mommy didn’t do a good job wrapping my leg at all.”
So he helped her re-wrap it, and she hobbled up to me and said, “I broke my leg,” and then, after my mock horror, “Just kidding, I’m just pretending.”
I have a hunch that the only people sick of broken legs are little Jane — and her parents.
Note: Jane is not her real name, as I didn't ask permission to
use it before writing this post.