Last night (I know, they have evening hours now) I took my t-minus-8-days 8-year-old (?) (that's right!) to the pediatrician's office. He had accidentally jabbed a pencil in to the palm of his hand. Oh, wait, excuse me, the pencil somehow just flipped around and on its own simply propelled itself straight into his hand through the skin. (You know this age, right?) ("I didn't do it, Mom!)
Hands being the germy places they are, this was starting to look infected. Now of course they had to see him, gosh forbid we over-prescribe antibiotics. (I know, I do actually believe that, but my vast pediatric experience completely qualifies me as a professional and, hello, it's infected.) So we're there. Waiting. And waiting. R pulls his usual hiding routine. "I'm going to hide in this corner (behind the table) and just tell the doctor that I went to Florida." "No, wait, tell her I went to Australia." Now we're talking, I may consider crawling down there if that's where we're going.
So far this is the typical office visit. Until Dr. T. comes in (of course not our usual pediatrician, she's smart enough to be at home already). In a fairly quick and completely concise series of questions and answers my son has just completed the office visit on his own. Took care of it all. And I just sat there.
Beautiful.
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