What a fucking day. I have met the cousin and spawn of the two idiot doctors I mentioned in my last post.
The Benadryl wasn't working so early this morning, Chuck and I took Junior to see the doctor who was on call for Junior’s regular doctor. She was about four feet tall; at first I thought a child had wandered into the room. She looked at Junior’s torso, which was covered in a bright red rash, then said, “Your child has a rash.”
Let’s take a moment to talk about relief. To think we had brought our child into the doctor’s knowing he had a rash and that we were able to leave with the peace of mind that comes from knowing that yes, he had a rash.
So we brought our rash-ridden Junior home, put him down for nap, then Chuck walked down the street to get pre-confirmed (have I mentioned he’s becoming a Catholic? That’s a whole other post). Falalala. Typical Sunday. Midget doctors and religious conversion. Somewhere in there I had a beer and ate a cookie.
An hour later I heard Junior stirring, so I went into his room to get him and my God it was like something out of a horror movie. His face and ears were covered in bright red bumps. I grabbed him and ran down the street to the church to tell Chuck we needed to go to the emergency room. Unfortunately, the church was packed and Junior wouldn’t stop yelling "bus" and "truck". People scowled at his red, blotchy face and then at me for bringing my child out in his grotesque condition. I felt like a gypsy with a leper child. Plus, I couldn't locate Chuck's bald head. So I stuffed my wayward urchin into the car and drove to the ER.
After waiting for hours to graduate to the “convenient care” waiting room—Chuck finally joined us, good on-the-way-to-becoming-Catholic boy that he now was—we were seen by Doogie Howser’s girlfriend, who thought Junior was “soooooooooooo cuuuuuuuuute. Omigosh!”
She looked Junior up and down and told us she’d be right back. A few minutes later she reappeared with a printout.
“It’s what I thought,” she said. “But I googled Fifth Disease just to be sure.” She showed us the picture of the pimply baby that resembled Junior. “Looks just like him. He’s soooooooooo cuuuuuuuuuute.”
My dad came over for cake and Scotch afterward for his birthday. Number 66. Because I have been taking notes on what it is to be a good doctor, I assessed his state without any actual interface then googled “tipsy.”
Shit, I was right on the money.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.