Yeah, But Have You Ever Had a Boxer's Fracture?

As noted Friday, I've officially been a parent for one year, and what I'm finding is that sometimes parents must go to great lengths to take a lesson in good behavior to a level where a young child can understand it. Where a child can say, "Wow, Dad! Now I get it. I'll never do that again."

As a one year old, Mr. O, on occasion, will let his anger get the best of him. He'll let out a yell at the cupboard door that won't open, throw himself down and bang his still-developing skull on the floor. I've told him many times that this is not a good idea and that people just don't deal with frustration in this way. I've even tried to reason with him, pointing out that the cause of the pain in the back of his head is due to his banging of said head on the tile floor.

Three weeks back, I was struggling to find a way to get through to him, so I decided to take that lesson in good behavior to the next level. For the good of my son and in no relation to the abysmal play of the Indiana basketball team in their season-closing loss to Penn State, I punched the arm of the couch. Hard. For effect.

Not being a doctor, I didn't know immediately how to diagnose the swelling, bruising, tingling and severe pain in my right hand. It wasn't until yesterday - yes, yesterday - when I spoke to an actual doctor, that I got the verdict. A Boxer's Fracture.

Now, until that diagnosis, my trip to the doc had been a tad embarrassing. Nurses laughed at me as the reason for my visit spread through the office.

My main nurse said, "I bet your wife thinks this is pretty funny." I replied, "Could that be because you can hear her laughing from 20 miles away?"

And, the doctor actually wrote "March Madness" in my file in the space left for "Reason for Injury."

About the only things that made it all worthwhile were the two words, Boxer's Fracture. I wanted to say to the doc, "Cut me, Mick. Cut me."

An object lesson in anger management that comes with a cool name, too. A twofer.

Plus, as Mr. O grows up, I'll have an 8 1/2 x 11 x-ray to use in showing him exactly what can happen when he loses his temper. I'll pull out that film and point to the hairline crack in my hand and say:

"Mr. O. A wise, wise man once wrote: In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade and he carries the reminders of ev'ry glove that laid him down and cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame, 'I am leaving, I am leaving.' But the fighter still remains... Lie-la-lie."

Remember those words, son.
UPDATE: Not on the condition of my hand, but on the outpouring of concern from my family.

Mom delivered these to me today...about 30 years too late.

In case you can't tell from the picture, these are Styrofoam Incredible Hulk fists that "roarrrrrr" when you hit things.

They are larger than Mr. O's head, so I'll wait till later to pass these on to the next generation.