Need To Keep Them At Fractured Arms’ Length

(When I’m about ten years old, I go on a weekend camping trip with my parents, siblings, cousins, a few aunts and uncles, grandparents, and my grandparents’ camping group. On the second night, I trip in the dark and fracture my left arm in two places. Neither fracture is severe enough to cause any pain and the splint I get in the emergency room makes my arm feel normal again, so I’m pretty calm about the whole thing, especially since I have no problems moving my fingers or gripping things. My family, on the other hand, is freaked out. We get back from the emergency room a little after two in the morning, so when I get up and go about my day as normal, I’m slightly amused by how everyone is treating me.)

Grandparents’ Friend: “[My Name]! How’s your arm? You scared us last night.”

Me: *lifts up splinted arm* “It’s fine; it doesn’t even hurt.”

Grandparents’ Friend: “You sure? You took quite a fall.”

Aunt: “Yeah, that looked like it hurt.”

Me: “Yeah, I’m sure. The doctor said it wasn’t bad, just two little fractures on either side of my wrist. And it’s not my dominant hand, so I can still draw and stuff.”

Mom: “Are you sure it doesn’t hurt? I’m sure Grandma and Grandpa have some ibuprofen or something.”

Me: “No thanks, I’m good.”

Grandpa: “Kiddo, you want some ginger ale?”

Me: “No, thanks, Grandpa, I’m fine.”

(They proceeded to smother me for the rest of the camping trip. I understood their concern, but I also thought it was hilarious how out of everyone, I was probably the LEAST concerned about my injury!)