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Lollipops, bones, meat, and juice.
Apr. 2nd, 2009 10:17 pmYesterday, the Zweeble hurt his foot. Or his ankle. I dunno which, and he's not the most reliable reporter being, you know, two. But he said his foot hurt, then he'd stumble when he'd try to walk, then he was limping even when he was distracted by a fancy new toy from his grandfather. So I called the pediatrician, got told to wait and see, and this morning he was still limping, so we went to the doctor's office.
Okay, lemme tell you, the people at the pediatrician's office are evil geniuses. They're fundraising for March of Dimes, and they put a lollipop tree with a donation bucket and a sign reading $1 donation and a lollipop at the checkout desk. So all these tearful kids who just got shots or, in our case, are headed off to have x-rays, are seeing lollipops and asking, sorrowfully, "Can I have a lollipop?"
Well, the Zweeble wasn't sorrowful--he was surprisingly polite, actually--but I went and scrounged for change in my car and got him a lollipop out of ... oh, guilt or sympathy or something. Parental squishiness. The picture of my little boy on the x-ray table, scared and tearful.
Which, not so much in reality. He was a little wary of the whole thing; I put him on the table and he hung onto his lollipop with one hand and my fingers with the other, asking, "Mommy? Mommy?"
"I'm right here, baby, I'm not going anywhere."
Then they'd go and hit the button, which was situated behind him, so he'd want to look. Once they said the button was green, he got all chipper because he got to say, "It turns green!" over and over. Between films, we'd look the equipment over. We had to peek underneath to see the little light thing they shone on his leg. Then, after the x-rays were done, we went by the computer in the hall and saw his x-rays. I said, "Look, baby, there are your bones!" He peered at the screen, but was much more impressed with the sticker the nurse gave him--a teddy bear getting an ex-ray with "I had an X-Ray!" written underneath.
In the end, no fractures. We're to keep an eye on him because it could be some viral thing, but probably not, and he's been walking better all day.
Daddy came home with meat and juice for the boy around noon. I got all misty-eyed at this proof of my husband's parental squishiness.
Okay, lemme tell you, the people at the pediatrician's office are evil geniuses. They're fundraising for March of Dimes, and they put a lollipop tree with a donation bucket and a sign reading $1 donation and a lollipop at the checkout desk. So all these tearful kids who just got shots or, in our case, are headed off to have x-rays, are seeing lollipops and asking, sorrowfully, "Can I have a lollipop?"
Well, the Zweeble wasn't sorrowful--he was surprisingly polite, actually--but I went and scrounged for change in my car and got him a lollipop out of ... oh, guilt or sympathy or something. Parental squishiness. The picture of my little boy on the x-ray table, scared and tearful.
Which, not so much in reality. He was a little wary of the whole thing; I put him on the table and he hung onto his lollipop with one hand and my fingers with the other, asking, "Mommy? Mommy?"
"I'm right here, baby, I'm not going anywhere."
Then they'd go and hit the button, which was situated behind him, so he'd want to look. Once they said the button was green, he got all chipper because he got to say, "It turns green!" over and over. Between films, we'd look the equipment over. We had to peek underneath to see the little light thing they shone on his leg. Then, after the x-rays were done, we went by the computer in the hall and saw his x-rays. I said, "Look, baby, there are your bones!" He peered at the screen, but was much more impressed with the sticker the nurse gave him--a teddy bear getting an ex-ray with "I had an X-Ray!" written underneath.
In the end, no fractures. We're to keep an eye on him because it could be some viral thing, but probably not, and he's been walking better all day.
Daddy came home with meat and juice for the boy around noon. I got all misty-eyed at this proof of my husband's parental squishiness.
