It was going to happen. I mean, it was really just a matter of time. You get notified of the impending disaster when they send you home from the hospital with your baby boy. He WILL injure himself. What I didn’t expect is to be making my first trip to the emergency room before he was five years old.

On Friday Micki, our sweet, sweet nanny, informed me that after returning home from a simple trip to the park Max quickly broke out into large hives all over his face. She took him to his room to change his diaper and as she went to lay him down he went “dead weight” on her and threw himself backwards — she was still holding on to his wrists. Max broke out into tears. Micki broke out into an anxiety attack. She put some ice in a bag, gently placed him on the couch and tapped her foot nervously until I returned.

When I came home Max was lying on the couch with a tiny bag of ice on his left wrist. The hives had magically disappeared except for a couple on his legs and neck. Micki anxiously related all the details to me and with a proper amount of hand-wringing said “I’m just not sure what is wrong with him”. I quickly reassured her that Max can be wild and that it probably is “nothing” and for her to go on home. She left, apologizing all the way out the door.

Well, it quickly became obvious that Max was NOT fine. He didn’t move – AT ALL. Not a toe. If I even thought about touching his arm he broke into hysterics and started shouting “Owwww”. When I tried to remove the now warm bag of water from his arm he clung to it like his own personal life-saver in a pool of toddler despair. I didn’t know what to do.

Well, after a restless night of Max crying and not moving we took him to the emergency room Saturday. We waited – because after all that is really what one does in the ER. I took Max to the xray room where they asked me to hold his arm straight, and flat. A position I knew hurt him. He whimpered and cried, but he didn’t move. Max and I returned to the hospital room and waited for the news. We watched Dora on my iPhone while I tried to block out the sound of vomiting in the room next to us.

The doctor returned and in a voice that belied the truth he said “Well, it looks like the little guy has dislocated his elbow. So, this is what we are going to do, I’m going to pop it back into place. It will hurt him, but within 30 minutes he will feel great.” My stomach sunk. I knew what was about to happen was going to be excruciating for my little man. I knew that it was going to hurt, but I also knew that Max had already been hurting for at least 24 hours. I held my breath. The doctor looked deep into Max’s eyes, gently grabbed his hand and elbow and ever so delicately pulled his hand. I HEARD and FELT his elbow pop back into place. Max turned to me with eyes that accused me of the biggest violation of trust and started the silent scream. The doctor repeatedly assured me that he quickly would be fine and not to worry. I wanted to believe him – I really did, but the hot tears were flowing fast and hard down Max’s face.

The nurse returned and stressed to me how easy it will be for this to happen again. We signed the required 50 pages of disclaimers and promises that we’ll pay them and weaved our way back to the waiting room. Max meekly asked for a lollipop and so we stopped at the nurses’ station. No lollipops. Seriously? What kind of two-bit hospital is this place that they can’t offer my 2 year old boy who has just withstood pain that makes grown men pass out a lollipop? We met up with the rest of the family and walked out to the car. Just as my stomach was starting to settle back down Max did something incredible. He used both of his hands and crawled up into the car, and then into his car seat. I got into the driver’s seat and he said in his sweet voice, “Mommy? I hungie!”

And just like that he was fine. The doctor was right. To say I’m proud of how he handled his little trauma would be an understatement. However, I’m actually more proud that I managed to keep myself together and neither burst into tears nor beat up the doctor.