Doctor ???

I am having a little elective procedure done tomorrow and can't seem to get THIS image out of my head....

I have been assured by the consultant, assistant, and optometrist that this is NOT who I will be seeing in the morning.

When Mom-Gut and Medical-Brain Collide....

It started almost 3 weeks ago. The kids started passing around a cold virus. Snot, Hack, Crank...you know the drill. Kid 1 and Kid 2 kicked it, no problem. Go immune system. Kid 3---she flailed about in our bed every night hacking, flopping, snotting, head-butting, whining, wailing, hacking, flopping, hacking.... She could not kick it. Booooo immune system.

Saturday, she gets the ultimatum. "You have until Monday to be better, or you're going to the pediatrician." She coughed at my threat.

Sunday, worse. Much worse. Couldn't stop coughing. Wouldn't eat. Only sipped juice. Flopped on daddy. Learned new word "Ucky!"

Now, I work in medicine. I like to think that I know a good deal about medicine. (I'm sure my patients like to think that, too.) One thing I know I know and know well is this---viral colds do not last more the 14 days. If it's over 14 days---get checked out. There is a secondary infection there somewhere.

So when Jason takes little Lyssi to the clinic, getting worse, after almost 3 weeks of this, I expected a diagnosis indicating location of said infection and antibiotics. What I got was, "Backup doctor said it's just a virus. She'll get over it."

Virus? Did you tell her how long it's lasted? How she has gotten much worse with new symptoms in the last 36 hours? How bad the cough has been the last 36 hours. How much water we used creating our own personal steam room last night? How I haven't slept well in 3 weeks? How much snot is on my pajamas? and Pillow?

Then I got the mini-lecture. "Honey, you're not the practitioner here. You're the mom. You told me to take her in" Yeah, but my mom-gut is talking to my medical-brain and they both know this is not right.

So, medical-brain resumes work. Then received call from Dad. "She's napped for hours." More work. More calls. "She feels warm but her temp is normal." More work. More calls. "Her temp just spiked to 102.7 under her arm, what do you think?"

Bam! Ka-pow!!!!! Mom-gut and Medical-Brain just got together and they both want an appointment at after hours. TONIGHT!

Nice Doctor listens to Mom-Gut's concerns and then to Medical-Brain saying, "Really, I'm not demanding an antibiotics. Just a second opinion."

Nice Doctor agrees with Mom-Gut and tells Medical-Brain he would have done the same thing with his kids. (He's possibly my new backup doctor. The charmer.)

He probes. He prods. He peeks. He peruses. He says everything looks and sounds pretty ok (Boooooo!), but let's start with a chest xray just to be sure, then maybe some lab work.

Droopy toddler didn't care what the big scary looking machines were doing. She stood, she breathed, she layed, and we got to "see her stuff," per Carsten.

The doctor's official read of said xray: Schmutzy Lung
Medical-Brain agreed: Left lower Schmutz

No blatant anything. Just Schmutz....on the left.

Official Diagnosis: Rapidly developing pneumonia with probable sinusitis.

2 doses of Miraculous High Dose Pink stuff later -- no fever and playing for the first time in weeks. (Let's all now shout PRAISE for the pink stuff!)

Moral of story: Occasionally Mom and Practitioner must meet. Or collide. Whatever. Just as long as the prescription written.

Should have been an optician....

What do you get when you take 1 boy, 2 pair of glasses, and 2 weeks of school?

A hunt for someone with a sautering iron and weekly visits to the opticians for adjustments. ("So how's was you son's first game, Bob?")

What is that kid doing with his face? He goes out the door straight and returns looking like the latest attraction in Piza. I never knew glasses could bend that direction.

Only 5 more years until contacts.......

Overheard...

"I didn't lie...I just told you what I thought you were thinking in your head."

Was there a mistake?

A friend of mine, the amazing mother of two little girls, recently blogged her fears about finding out the gender of her yet-to-be-born #3. She grew up with all sisters, now has two girls, and was quite nervous about the possibility of testosterone streaming in her womb. (Results are in --- Testosterone it is!)

I laughed. Why? Because that's almost exactly what happened to me 7 1/2 years ago. I was so sure I was having a girl. There was no way God would send me a boy because I wouldn't know what to do with it and openly admitted that I just didn't understand little boys. (Not any better with "big boys...") I walked into the ultrasound suite confident in finding the "hamburger sign." You know...Hamburger sign for girls and Turtle sign for boys.

Yet, turtle it was.

I asked the sonographer a million time if she was sure. She was. My measurements were small, so the radiologist was brought in, whom I also drilled. Turtle? You sure? Really?

What was God thinking?

I didn't know what to do with a boy. I had no experience. I didn't get them. I only had 1 brother amid us 4 girls. He was 5 years older than me; that's like 130 years in kid-years. We didn't do anything together. Our daily interaction consisted of my rolling up the sleeves of his Vuarnet T-Shirts every morning (perfectionist little sisters are awesome at this.)

All I had observed I didn't understand. Mayhem and destruction? War? Beating a stick on the ground to find out how long before it disintegrates? Paying someone $0.50 to urinate on the side of their house? (Though it did provide for a lucrative business..) Huh?

But there he was, and still is. Boy, oh, boy. Mayhem and destruction? Check. War? Check. Beating a stick on the ground to find out how long before it disintegrates? Check. Check that one twice, actually. Paying someone $0.50 to ... well, I don't think that one's checked, but I wouldn't be surprised.

Seven years later, and I still don't know what to do with him. I frequently have to glance at his Dad and get the reassurance of "He's not a sociopath, that's just what boys do." For his sake, I've learned to speak GI Joe, Lego, and Avatar like a master. I've learned that the lack of aim is not on purpose - usually - and Clorox Wipes do wonders. I've learned that the amount of dirt and smell on a boy at bedtime is directly correlated to the fun of the day and happiness of the boy. I've learned to not ask "what were you thinking" unless I'm willing to accept the rationale. I've learned to "hear" love told in different ways.

So, friend, you are in for a ride. Brush up on your GI Joe, pull out a sword - or a stick - and hang on. Boys just come different, right out of the box, and I don't just mean in the diaper.

I'll never understand what God was thinking when he gave me this kid, but I'll always be glad he thought of me.