In non-book news, The Boy did indeed break himself. Specifically, he chipped the scaphiod bones in both arms. Here's a helpful illustration:
A true Pittsburgh boy, he's got a black cast on one arm and a gold one on the other. I bought two enormous blue rubber oven mitt-type things that form a water-tight seal and allow the kid to bathe and shower (and even to swim, if he were so inclined), and while they do a great job of keeping the casts dry, he's not able to do much in the way of manipulating wet things. And so . . . I've been washing the kid's hair, to his mingled dismay and delight (he sort of feels like he's being waited on, which I know he likes). I abandon him to a soapy washcloth, though, to make him get the rest of his body as clean as he can. I do clean and trim his nails, though, and I finally (FINALLY!) get to comb out the kid's wet hair. His hair is long and wavy, and he never combs it out as thoroughly as I'd like. He ducks away from me, though, when I threaten to come at him with a comb. Now, though, he's powerless against me, because he can't grip a comb. I've been using a wide-toothed comb and then a finer-toothed one, and even he admits that his hair looks better than usual when it dries. Time and attention: Long hair requires it; The Boy is too rushed to want to bother. Yet he shies away from scissors like Samson. Dork.
He goes back to the orthopedic specialist (who says he hasn't seen bilateral breaks on a kid in twenty years) on October 8, and the casts will come off and more x-rays will be taken. If things look good, The Boy is free. If not, new casts will go on, and I think The Boy and I will both cry a little. As cheerful as he's been through the whole process, and as oddly nice as it's been to be able to baby him a little, we're both ready to get back to normal.
