INJURY TIME!

Oh, boy! Kate’s sons are in the wars again

I’m not sure what it is about boys and injuries, but if, like me, you have two or more sons, then I’m sure you can identify with how often they’re injured.

It’s the pace at which they live their lives, I think. Fast. Sport is their religion. And not just organised sport, but also that run-round-the-house, kick-a-ball, kick-each-other type of sport.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it. Any time spent moving is less time spent sitting on your bum on your phone. The more active kids are, the better.

But here’s the rub. With the activity comes the injury. I often wish I had a frequent flyer card for my local A&E. If it had a points system, I’d be quids in by now. I’d probably have earned two free trips round the world. We are there with such alarming regularity due to the constant state of injury my boys seem to be in. The nurses actually greet us with stuff like, “Hello again,” and, “What is it now?!”

The thing about boys is, they go hard at stuff. If they’re going to slam-dunk a basketball, they’ll almost break the net doing it. If they’re going to kick a ball, they’ll boot it so far, it crosses two neighbours’ properties. If they’re going to run, they’ll run until they almost collapse and/or twist an ankle. If they’re going to play squash (my boys’ preferred sport), they’ll do it until they break either a racquet or the other’s arm by smashing the racquet into it. There’s no middle ground.

Testosterone is a fierce force. You see it when they’re toddlers. The girl toddlers will sit happily with a book or doll and just play quietly. The boy toddlers will be tearing round the room, making loud zooming noises as they go smashing over everything in their path on the way.

My least favourite playdates were the ones where I’d have to take my two boy toddlers to a girl toddler’s house. Girl toddler would behave perfectly. My two would trash the house in 30 seconds. I’m sure mums of boys spend more time apologising than mums of girls. I was so relieved to finally have a baby girl, but by the time I did, no-one wanted playdates with us any more. I wonder why?! Also, with two big brothers, my little girl had no hope of being a delicate little girly-girl anyway.

So I was away on school camp with my tomboy daughter last week when son number two texted me: “Mum, I’m injured. Need physio.” He’d pulled a muscle playing squash and was limping. Then came a second text, this time from son number one: “Mum, I’m wrecked, have to get physio.” “Is this a joke?” I replied. “No, seriously, twisted my back playing rugby.”

After a while, you learn to stop saying stuff like, “Be more careful,” or, “Don’t do things that may injure you,” or, “Can you please slow down?” This is all pointless. It will be ignored. They’re incapable of slowing down or taking care. I’ve had to accept that visits to A&E are part of the deal of parenting boys. If you’re a mum of sons, my advice is, have a large first-aid kit at home.