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I was having a good old chat with my friend Sam when Sienna came in from out the back. She was crying and I could tell it wasn’t a she-won’t-let-me-play cry, but more of a I’ve-hurt-myself cry.
“I hurt my arm,” she said.
I looked at her arm and a strange noise came out of my mouth. It seemed to be going in several different directions and looked more like the ‘s’ bend under the bathroom sink than an arm.
I stared at the arm for about 7 seconds, holding it in my palm. I wanted to burst into tears. But them Mum mode kicked in.

“Okay, babe. Your arm is a little bit hurt. We’re going to have to go to the doctor.”
“I’ll take you to the hospital,” said Sam.
I picked up Nenna and put her in the car, and then realised that I’d be okay to drive her myself.
Sam stayed with my girls while I drove Sienna to Fiona Stanley.

We parked too far from the Emergency Room and I had to stop twice while I was carrying her. Along the way, two different people asked if we were okay but we all agreed that I was best to just keep trying to get there.

At the counter, the triage nurse took one look at her arm, pulled a face that looks like the emoticon that’s all teeth, and ushered us straight in.

The doctor gave Sienna some pretty awesome drugs, shot straight up her nose. We kept the arm covered with the t-towel Sam had given us. It was so out of shape so it was just better not to see it.

We didn’t have to wait long for the x-rays and Sienna was an absolute champion while the radiographer did her thing. I saw an image of her arm on the screen but couldn’t make much sense of it. The extent of my medical knowledge is that “the arm bone’s connected to the hand bones.”

But not in this case.

“Ouch,” said the radiographer.
“Ouch,” said the radiographer’s assistant.

Back in the room and Dad had arrived. Another doctor came in and explained that this was no simple fracture. He told me that they wanted to sedate her and try to push the bone a little closer to home. In its current position, it was pushing on muscle and nerves.

They put her to sleep and we left the room.

In the hall, we prayed healing prayer. I asked God for a miracle- that the doctor would slip the bones back into place. That when the radiographer came back, they’d all scratch their heads as they looked at the perfectly normal arm bones of a five-year-old girl.

But it didn’t happen like that. Her arm was wrapped and she was prepped for surgery.

They transferred her to the ward. Dad dressed her in the hospital pyjamas and helped her clean her teeth before going home to the other girls. In the morning she will have her arm set with pins or plates or wires or screws. They said they won’t know till they get started.

I am sleeping on a chair with a terrible flatulence problem. And before I try to get five minutes worth, I blog to help it all settle.

I know it’s just a broken arm, and our troubles are very small in the grand scheme of things, but as I watched her go under the sedation, her eyelids fluttering and her little arms and legs jerking out in involuntary spasms, my heart ached. And I thought to myself that right now, in this season of life, there is nothing more important than being her mum. Nothing matters as much as soaking up the moments with my girls. Guiding them, loving them, laughing with them, being there to stroke their hair and tell them they’re okay.

Now… who’s for pictures?