IT'S nearly three years since that fateful day when I broke my eldest son's ankle while out sledging. I dared him to go over a bump on the hill, he came a cropper and started making a right racket. I pulled his welly off, told him to wiggle his toes, decided he was over-reacting, and made him climb the hill to the car.

Back at the house, Mum decided he should go to hospital. An X-ray showed it was, in fact, badly broken and he needed an operation to insert a couple a screws into the bone.

"How did it happen?" asked the surgeon.

"It was all my Dad's fault," replied Christopher before outlining the full story.

"I see," said the surgeon, raising a disapproving eyebrow.

The guilt has never left me. Christopher doesn't let me forget and his mother still gives me black looks whenever it gets dredged up.

Perhaps that's why I had mixed feelings when the telephone call came through at work to tell me our youngest, Max, was being taken to hospital after breaking his arm.

Naturally, I was worried. But if I'm honest, a sense of relief also swept through me because he was with his Mum when it happened.

It got better as the full details emerged. After collecting Max from school, Mum suddenly remembered she was supposed to be picking up Christopher from college and started to run. Poor Max fell trying to keep up. He started squealing loudly about his wrist but Mum told him it was just a graze. It was only when she got back from the college that the swelling suggested it was a hospital job.

An X-ray confirmed he'd broken his wrist in two places and would need general anaesthetic to reset the bone.

When I stopped off at the house to collect some things for Mum and Max's overnight stay in hospital, Christopher rushed up to the car: "Dad, there's mileage in this for you - Mum thought it was just a graze!"

He might still blame me for breaking his ankle, but there's a male camaraderie at moments like this - an appreciation that we have to stick together and make the most of every opportunity.

Max was being wheeled back to his bed after the operation when I arrived at the hospital and the anaesthetist had come out specially to see Mum.

"I had to come and tell you what a fantastic job you did taking his mind off the injection," he gushed. "You were fantastic - it made our job so much easier."

Apparently, she'd distracted him at the vital moment by drawing his attention to the heart rate monitor and getting him to try to make the number come down from 120 by breathing gently.

I just stood to one side like a spare part as the anaesthetist lavished more praise on her and I winced as I heard him say: "You really are an example to other mothers."

He even said he wished he could make a video of her to show other mums.

Part of me wanted to tell him she'd made Max run and dismissed his injury as only a graze, but it was too late - her position as a model mum had been cemented.

"How'ya doing, Max?" I asked, once The Little 'Un was back in his room.

"How do you think, Dad? My arm's broken," he replied with a sigh. "The doctor said Mum was brilliant - but you took your time, didn't ya?"

Guilty as charged.

THE THINGS THEY SAY (AT CHRISTMAS)

A true story from the collection of anecdotes supplied by County Durham's former director of education Keith Mitchell...

There is a crisis at a County Durham primary school because it is the day of the Christmas concert and Scrooge hasn't arrived for registration.

A call to home reveals that the boy who's been chosen for the starring role in A Christmas Carol is ill and confined to bed.

Panic spreads among the staff. Consideration is given to cancelling the performance but it's agreed the show must go on. A replacement Scrooge is identified and given intensive training between 10am and 1.30pm in the vain hope he can learn his lines in time.

It's touch and go by the time the audience of expectant parents has gathered, and the teachers - especially the headteacher - are crossing their fingers tightly as the performance begins.

Substitute Scrooge makes a cracking start - word perfect and gaining in confidence with every scene. He is so brilliant that the headteacher starts to relax.

Then, Scrooge moves to the front of the stage and stands there, not saying a word. The headteacher starts to sweat as five seconds of silence turn into ten, and ten turn into 15.

The headteacher can take no more. He leaps to his feet and makes a tortured announcement: "Terribly sorry everyone but our original Scrooge has fallen ill and you are watching a last-minute substitute. I'm sure that you'll forgive him for forgetting his lines and give him and the rest of the cast a well-earned round of applause."

The sympathetic audience gives a full ovation, with whistling, clapping and cheering. It is only when it dies down that Scrooge looks at the headteacher and says: "'Sir, that was a dramatic pause."

* Listen to Peter Barron reading from the Dad At Large archive at www.thenorthernecho.co.uk. Just click on the audio & visual button.