Mom Called It


So, I’m not this kind of doctor:

Dr. Who

Or this kind:

Dr House

And I’m still working on being this kind:

Not me

Even so, I correctly diagnosed my son. His close encounter of the concrete kind broke his finger.

Mr. Smarty Pants: 0

Concrete: 1

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.

Me, sans makeup and way too early for all this waiting.

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