Sass and Magic

A few weeks ago, Cubby caught the croup. I braced myself, knowing that eventually Cubby, sweet little brother that he is, would share this with the Bear. Yesterday, I took the Bear to the Doctor's office for a diagnosis. Officially, he is suffering from a bronchial infection and will be on a course of steroids in hopes of repelling any potential for pneumonia. I am sad for him. But that isn't what I want to write about today. I would like to write about the Doctor's office. Particularly, the waiting room. Specifically the "sick side" of the waiting room. Then I will alleviate your suffering and share a bit of magic.

First, a cringe-worthy story. Most Pediatric offices have a "well" side and a "sick" side in a valiant effort to keep cooties contained. This is all well and good for the cheery folks over on the well side, but for those on the sick side, well, we are less fortunate. Not only do we suffer watching our little ones cough, sneeze, and rub their weary little eyes, but we also have to be wary of the other sick children and their own unique little infections, which may not be the same malady that brought our own little one to the Doctor's office. This means that you can take your baby to the Doctor for an ear infection and leave with scarlet fever if you are not careful. I am always careful.

For example, when the Bear and I walked into the sick side yesterday we were greeted by two little boys his age, one suffering from a hacking cough and the other from chicken pox. These children were sitting quietly on their mother's laps, coughing and whimpering, suffering silently as they waited their turn. I sat with the Bear on my lap and proceeded to exchange details of symptoms and worries with the other moms.

Then they walked in.

The twosome every waiting mother fears will enter the sick side where her child waits--- an irresponsible guardian and his overwhelmingly contagious and disobedient brat.

When the child charged in, a boy of lets say three years old, he was followed by a germ infested cloud of mucus. Think Pigpen from Peanuts meets Taz from Looney Tunes, and maybe that combination of cartoon just ingested a crack rock the size of your fist while simultaneously suffering from a particularly virulent strain of the plague.

Taz

Pig Pen

Now adding to our plentiful imagery is the elderly gentleman in charge of said Pig Pen/Taz/Crack/Plague child--"Plague Boy" for the purposes of story sharing. This guardian of Plague Boy suffers from a touch of Marty Feldman and a generous amount of Pablo Escobar.

Marty

Colombian douche bag

Apart from looking untidy, disgruntled, and severely bug eyed, he waltzed in a total of three minutes after his presumed child made an entrance. He appeared to be in no hurry to follow his charge and maintained his uncaring, uninvolved demeanor throughout my time in the wait room.

Plague Boy ran into the waiting room spewing snot and hacking a very wet cough in all directions. Identical looks of horror swept over our faces as we watched him hurtle his body into the office door at top speed, over and over again. Each time he slammed his body into the door he would fall backwards onto the waiting room floor, laughing manically and collapsing into a fit of wheezing, before standing up and repeating the process. By the time his guardian strolled onto the scene, Plague Boy was wiping bits of vomit off his mouth and onto his shirt.

I hope you're cringing as you read this. Surely it is only a tenth of what I felt at that moment.

The careless man strolled up to the nurse receptionist's window and spoke with her while Plague Boy walked up to each of us with a greeting that included snot, vomit chunks, and hacking cough germs spewed in the direction of our children.

As soon as he approached me, I shielded the Bear with my body. Plague Boy began hitting my legs in an attempt to touch the Bear.

I calmly said, "No. Do not touch us. Please sit down on the other side of the room." He looked at me and ran away towards Mom #1, coughing harshly before vomiting on the floor next to her child. I reached into my bag, found my bottle of travel Lysol and sprayed my legs and the surrounding area.

One mother let out a short laugh. The other shot me a look as if to say, "Please hand it over so I can use it too." The Guardian, however, came over and had the audacity to scold me for using my Lysol.

I looked him squarely in the eye, lifted my can of Lysol and squirted a bit in his direction with a sassy and satisfying "Pfft."

If his eyes weren't already bugged out, I'm sure they would have popped out a bit more. He grumbled under his breath at me as he walked to the bench across the way and plopped down with a huff of indignation.

To say that you could cut the tension in that sick room with a knife would be a gross understatement.

I maintained my hold on the Bear and my eye contact with Bug Man while Plague Boy barfed into a plastic bag.

Mom #2, in a polite attempt to break the staring contest between Bug Man and myself, asked me where I had managed to find such a small bottle of Lysol.

I responded, "At Target. I have a bottle in the car and one in each of my diaper bags. You never know what kind of germs are on picnic benches or swing sets. Even at the Doctor's office, sometimes you encounter unsupervised children that are positively dripping in the kind of germs that merit the use of those space suits from Outbreak." I still had not broken eye contact with Bug Man.

You don't mess with me, my kids, or my can of Lysol and expect to go without a great dose of sass from me.

I got up after Plague Boy began dumping his puke bag on the floor. I let the nurse receptionist know that I would be waiting outside, far away from the walking beaker of Ebola virus.

We suffered in the searing heat for awhile before we were called in. I marched past the vomit puddles and took the Bear in for his visit. When we left half an hour later, poor little Plague Boy, still unsupervised, was hacking away in the corner, terrifying a new round of concerned parents.

Gross. I felt sorry for Plague Boy. Certainly a disobedient brat that merited a sound dose of discipline, but ultimately a sick child in the hands of a bad parent.

Now that you are sufficiently horrified let's move on to the magic.

Later that day, I placed a sad and weary Bear on the floor of the nursery for playtime. He walked over to the wicker toy trunk at the foot of his bed and began to dig. A short time later he unearthed a plastic bottle in the shape of a police man.

This bottle was once filled with bubbles. The hat once unscrewed to reveal an attached bubble wand. We used it on our vacation in Michigan this past summer. The Bear loved watching his older cousins at play with these community helper bubble toys which consisted of a policeman and a firefighter. Once they were empty, I broke off the bubble wand, cleaned out the bottles and took them home for the Bear to play with. Unfortunately they fell to the bottom of the trunk and have remained hidden from him for the last month. He found one yesterday and lifted it with a small smile.

"Bubbles, Mama" he said.

He touched the bottle with gentle wonder, as if he were caressing the face of an old and dear face he had not seen in a while. He unscrewed the hat and peered into the bottle.

"Uh-ooooo," came out of his rounded little lips when he discovered that the bottle was empty and the wand had been removed.

Not to be deterred, my son poked his finger into the empty bottle, lifted it to his mouth like an imaginary wand and blew.

"Bubbles!"

Sweet little angel. Sick as can be and still reveling in the magic of his own imagination.