I was in the queue at the bagel shop when M broke her collarbone. She wasn’t at the bagel store. She was at a neighbor’s house. Our neighbor texted me: M fell and hurt her shoulder. I’m going to bring her back, and I knew that was unusual, because M is four, and of course she falls all the time, often at the home of our neighbors, and it doesn’t require a text. Our blocks leans more socialist than formal. We collectively mop non-critical tears, and move on.

Eric is home, I responded, and then Sorry just in line at bagels, which, yikes! What a mother. In my defense, the bagel shop is really close to the house. In my defense, I was halfway through selecting my dozen.

M is the less sensitive of our children, when it comes to injury. This meant we knew that something was really wrong when the application of a bag of frozen edamame to the shoulder and an episode of Gabby’s Dollhouse did not cheer her up. As the most eminent and qualified physician in our household — I have had the most health problems; I have published the most memoirs about those health problems — I took her to the hospital. A short but harrowing drive.

Once we got there, M took a shot of orange liquid ibuprofen and we watched K Pop Demon Hunters, awaiting the X-ray. It took hours; I guess a lot of people were broken on New Year’s Eve. At last, the physician confirmed that the collarbone was the problem, and brought her a small sling, cotton with a pattern of dinosaurs.

Actually, said M, regarding it, my favorite animal is dogs.

As we waited for her to be discharged, she initiated a discussion about how she would manage the news cycle with her pre-K classmates.

I’m not going to tell them what happened, she said. Unless they ask.

Sure, I said, you don’t have to talk about it at all.

She paused. She smiled.

They’re all gonna ask, she said.

That was a week ago. She’s doing better now. Every day we receive a little update on what’s happened in the classroom:

Four is a pretty good age.

JHE