The post I'm too tired to think of a title for

Thanks to everyone for the kind words. I want to assure everyone who might have gotten the impression that my doctor is mean and that I am not assertive enough that I did get confirmation that if the x-ray showed pneumonia she would CALL in a prescription rather than requiring the honour of our presence again -- NOT doing that little forced march twice in two days. The night was less than stellar -- despite the puffer Eve coughed forcefully and pitiably from bedtime until midnight or so until I gave up on both of us trying to sleep, got her up and propped her up in my chair to watch TV and gave her a full dose of Benadryl. Around two a.m. we both dozed off and the rest of the night was better, although I think I dreamed a couple of additional episodes of Naturally Sadie.

This morning we dropped Angus off at school and headed to the X-Ray clinic where my doctor had assured me we wouldn't need an appointment. This was true; however, the receptionist said she would have to ask the radiologist if they would do Eve since she was so young, and at least one of their radiologists refused to read children at all, so we might have to go to CHEO. I debated quickly between cash bribes and crying, and decided on standing there like a moron until we got the word that the radiologist would read her films, whereupon I debated quickly between flowers and chocolate and decided on sitting in a chair staring into space while Eve read Junie B. Jones. (I love Junie B. Jones. She has poor impulse control and is not afraid to call dumb, stupid things dumb and stupid and she brought a fish stick to school for a pet).

As we pulled into the parking lot for the clinic, Eve mused "this part of my life is quite doctorish". As we sat in the waiting room she whispered to me "I kind of like that they don't call your name, they call my name." In the x-ray room she made the technician laugh when she looked down at herself and said totally deadpan, "I'm wearing a paper shirt". The technician made her laugh when she assured her that, despite the apron that covered her butt, they did x-ray butts on a regular basis.

There's something sort of comforting about the day after you're up in the night with a sick child (when you don't work outside the house). Nobody really expects anything of you except recovery. You can tell people that your doctor is going to call in a recipe instead of a prescription and they get it. People tell you to take a nap. When you look up from your computer for the thirteenth time thinking there's a red car in the driveway and finally realize that it's just the red bowl on the edge of the counter blending in your peripheral vision with the window beside the front door you don't worry that you're completely losing your grip on reality. Quite as much.

I've read the paper and looked at the internet today enough to feel very grateful that things aren't worse. I could, for instance, be like Alanis Morrissette -- married to a guy named Souleye. Imagine the conversations: "Dammit, Souleye, how many times do I have to tell you to put the lid back down?!" "Souleye, honey, mind grabbing me an organic iced tea?" Also, I've never tried to rob a convenience store and fallen on my own knife while trying to escape (instant karma! Plus, hugely enjoyable visual). And... oh! I don't have to x-ray people's butts on a regular basis.

Life is good.