A Self Portrait at Thirteen
At ten, she was diagnosed with strep throat, nine times and was my only kid to have gone through surgery, twice, and well, did I mention she was born on a Wednesday?
"Yes, it's positive, your son has strep throat."
My ten-year-old son, however, is not a very good patient.
"I…[snorf]…hate…[cough]…that…[snorf]…swab…[cough]…thing!"
Me, either.
"Sorry, Mrs. Thompson, but we're all out of lollipops!"
DAMMIT!
"That's okay, our pediatrician is our usual supplier."
However, her office is anywhere from a fifteen minute to half-an-hour car drive away and, well, I decided to take my son down the road to the Doctor's Office, save myself the aggravation of dealing with Friday afternoon traffic and be back in time to pick up my youngest daughter from school.
[phone rings]
DAMMIT! I didn't recognize the number, so I let it go to voicemail (you think that sucks, I understand) but, little did I know, my thirteen-year-old daughter and I were about to bond on a very intimate level.
"There's an emergency!"
Aaaaand, I couldn't be any more surprised if I woke up in the morning with my head sewn to George Clooney's carpet, or something like that.