So, I’m not this kind of doctor:
Or this kind:
And I’m still working on being this kind:
Even so, I correctly diagnosed my son. His close encounter of the concrete kind broke his finger.
Mr. Smarty Pants: 0
Since it is summer, and he’s officially a teen, he’s staying up rather late, so when I dragged him out of bed at eight a.m. this morning to go to the doctor, he was surly and sullen and insisted that “he was fine”.
Nevertheless, having had a brother that got in a couple of fights and then sported the broken knuckles to prove it, I knew a fracture when I saw one. Mr. Smarty-Pants decided maybe I was not being an over-reacting mother when the pediatrician took one look, poked at it a bit and referred us to an orthopedic doctor.
Unfortunately, said orthopedic doctor works in slow motion on Saturdays– at least it felt like that. We sat in a waiting room, were ushered to another waiting area, got x-rayed, went back to the same waiting area, were escorted to a room to wait, sent to yet another waiting area, and then finally got a cast. What took them two and a half hours to diagnose and “treat”, I called in thirty seconds of observation, and well, I suppose I could have duct-taped it.
Mr. Smarty-pants had to miss a paintball outing with his friends. I missed my karate class. We both missed sleeping in, but hey he has a nice black cast to show off. When I got his hair cut today, my stylist said he was the coolest thirteen year old she’d ever seen and that he looked kind of bad-ass with the cast. We shan’t tell him what she said. His ego is large enough as it is. However, it isn’t so large that he doesn’t cuddle with Mom.