Can you tell from the above picture where I just spent a significant amount of time?

Yep, you guessed it. The emergency room of the local hospital.

My middle child, my dear, sweet little football legend, went to first day of summer training today. And while gracefully executing a back pedal ( or some other ridiculously named feat), managed to trip and fall and land on his left wrist.
Gotta give the man credit, though, he stayed until training was over and held up a brave face until the door of the car closed. Then he sadly tells me that he believes his wrist is broken and I should take him on to the emergency room. Pish posh, I say. Let's go have dad take a look first.
Dad says, go ahead and take him to the emergency room. Great, I say.
Six xrays and several hours later, my dear, sweet little football legend leaves the emergency department with a temporary cast and a referral to an orthopaedic doctor for tomorrow.
Happy, happy, joy, joy. His summer swimming career is over before he even got started.
All I can hear in my mind is that sound they make on the Price is Right when someone doesn't do well. Wah-wah-wah. Poor little man. Stuck with mama for the summer. Sucks to be him.