Peter came home yesterday from his camping/rock-climbing trip. He starts out by calling me on the way and saying, “You’ve got to promise me you’ll still let me go climbing, but…”
A mom’s gotta hate that, right? Right.
Turns out that he fell “only about 30 feet” and, in the process, smacked his hand against the cliff-face. He was properly harnessed and tethered, so he was caught way before impact and the fall itself only injured his pride. It was the hand-smacking that was the problem.
His first two fingers, it turns out, have hairline fractures, and he has just returned from the doctor’s in a plastic-fabric cast. In an effort to reassure his old high-school buddy, the doctor told Buck, who had accompanied kid to the doctor’s, said that, if Peter were on a desert island, the hand would probably heal itself without assistance.
I think I actually feel a bit reassured.
white pebble 