Oh, Just Wear a Patch, Kid
Apparently someone (or something) has been socking my 9-year old in the eyeball causing an inflammation and bruising situation that requires medicated eye drops and multiple visits to the eye doctor. Which wouldn't be too bad if I suddenly hadn't gone all anti-hoarding and held on to the medicated eye drops as opposed to tossing them in the trash last week. I have cough medicine that expired 3-1/2 years ago yet I toss the drops. I know I make no sense.
Eye appointment looming I toss a bottle at the toddler and attempt to find his shoes. The kid owns exactly one pair of shoes. Do you want to know why my kid owns only one pair of shoes? Because he's not my first born. The first born had thirty-eight pairs of shoes to choose from at any given time. The third born child is lucky he gets shoes at all. But because the clock is ticking and the I-need-to-arrive-twenty-minutes-before-my-scheduled-appointment-or-I'll-implode 9-year is twitching I cannot locate the shoes. It's two degrees outside and I have no shoes for the baby. Whatever. He's got socks. Toss him in the car seat and let's get going.
So I drive the twenty minute route with precise countdown commentary:
"It's eleven forty-three. My appointment is at noon. That's in seventeen minutes."
Turn left. Slip through a snow drift.
"It's eleven forty-five. My appointment is at noon. That's in fifteen minutes."
Darn it. A red light.
"Is the baby asleep?" I ask, thinking maybe, just maybe, we can talk about something other than what time it is.
"No. He's drinking his bottle. It's eleven forty-seven. My appointment is at noon. That's in thirteen minutes."
For the love. Who taught this child how to tell time?
The eye clinic is busy. Crowded. There are hundreds of people. Okay, maybe six. But it felt like hundreds because there are only four chairs in the waiting room and I am not in one. Instead I am standing against the wall with a wriggly baby and a time conscious tween.
"It's past noon. My appointment is at noon."
It's a thousand degrees in here. Perhaps only 68, but when you're wearing winter gear indoors you cook quickly. We cannot get in the exam room quick enough.
Yep. It's inflamed. Yep. It's red. Yep. Let's get a new prescription for the drops you threw out. "You could probably keep these for a while," the doctor tells me. "Just in case." Right. Great idea.
And then, the words that would change the course of our day: "I just want to dilate her eye and take a look; make sure nothing's going on in there."
Did you know they make you wait twenty minutes for your eye to dilate?
This is what will happen in twenty minutes:
The toddler can no longer sit still. He will demand to get out of your arms and walk into every slushy snow puddle left by the entry door. Which means his socks will get wet because you are the mother who doesn't have shoes for your kid. And then he will become uncomfortable because his socks are gross and wet and he will take them off because who wants to walk around in goopy socks?
The toddler will then explode. Literally. He will experience a bowel movement unlike any you have ever seen. And it will smell. Very, very bad. So you will throw the toddler in the lap of your 9-yr and tell her to hang on while you run out into the parking lot to grab the diaper bag out of the car. And your 9-yr old will begin to panic and cry because she doesn't want to be left alone (too many strange people) and you will not be one of those patient mommies who comfort and reassure your scared child; no, instead you will become one of those seething, talking through your clenched teeth kind of mommies: Just hold on to him for twenty seconds while I get the damn bag.
And you will race out to the car. And search it. And look in the front seat. And the back seat. And in the trunk for good measure. But, guess what? You won't find the diaper bag because, guess what? It's sitting on the floor of the garage where you put it when you had to wrestle the toddler into the car seat.
So you will go back inside the waiting room where the 9-yr old is fighting back tears while she fights the squirming toddler who is turning various shades of red and purple because he is not happy he has been restrained for the past thirty-eight seconds, and you will take hold of the toddler and look at the 9-yr old and shamefully admit there are no diapers to be had and the 9-yr old will look at you in horror and disbelief at the exact same moment the toddler decides to vomit the full volume of the bottle he consumed not too long ago. And now, in addition to the baby manure stench, there is a rancid spoiled milk odor filling the air.
Thank God the doctor beckons as you're wiping up curdled milk from her carpet with the festive box of Puffs Plus and avoiding the disgusted stares of those around you. Nothing in the eyeball. (I waited in the hall with the stink kid.) Got my prescription and hightailed it out of there.
But do not fret. All was not in vain!
I got this super cool picture to remember the day:
Eye appointment looming I toss a bottle at the toddler and attempt to find his shoes. The kid owns exactly one pair of shoes. Do you want to know why my kid owns only one pair of shoes? Because he's not my first born. The first born had thirty-eight pairs of shoes to choose from at any given time. The third born child is lucky he gets shoes at all. But because the clock is ticking and the I-need-to-arrive-twenty-minutes-before-my-scheduled-appointment-or-I'll-implode 9-year is twitching I cannot locate the shoes. It's two degrees outside and I have no shoes for the baby. Whatever. He's got socks. Toss him in the car seat and let's get going.
So I drive the twenty minute route with precise countdown commentary:
"It's eleven forty-three. My appointment is at noon. That's in seventeen minutes."
Turn left. Slip through a snow drift.
"It's eleven forty-five. My appointment is at noon. That's in fifteen minutes."
Darn it. A red light.
"Is the baby asleep?" I ask, thinking maybe, just maybe, we can talk about something other than what time it is.
"No. He's drinking his bottle. It's eleven forty-seven. My appointment is at noon. That's in thirteen minutes."
For the love. Who taught this child how to tell time?
The eye clinic is busy. Crowded. There are hundreds of people. Okay, maybe six. But it felt like hundreds because there are only four chairs in the waiting room and I am not in one. Instead I am standing against the wall with a wriggly baby and a time conscious tween.
"It's past noon. My appointment is at noon."
It's a thousand degrees in here. Perhaps only 68, but when you're wearing winter gear indoors you cook quickly. We cannot get in the exam room quick enough.
Yep. It's inflamed. Yep. It's red. Yep. Let's get a new prescription for the drops you threw out. "You could probably keep these for a while," the doctor tells me. "Just in case." Right. Great idea.
And then, the words that would change the course of our day: "I just want to dilate her eye and take a look; make sure nothing's going on in there."
Did you know they make you wait twenty minutes for your eye to dilate?
This is what will happen in twenty minutes:
The toddler can no longer sit still. He will demand to get out of your arms and walk into every slushy snow puddle left by the entry door. Which means his socks will get wet because you are the mother who doesn't have shoes for your kid. And then he will become uncomfortable because his socks are gross and wet and he will take them off because who wants to walk around in goopy socks?
The toddler will then explode. Literally. He will experience a bowel movement unlike any you have ever seen. And it will smell. Very, very bad. So you will throw the toddler in the lap of your 9-yr and tell her to hang on while you run out into the parking lot to grab the diaper bag out of the car. And your 9-yr old will begin to panic and cry because she doesn't want to be left alone (too many strange people) and you will not be one of those patient mommies who comfort and reassure your scared child; no, instead you will become one of those seething, talking through your clenched teeth kind of mommies: Just hold on to him for twenty seconds while I get the damn bag.
And you will race out to the car. And search it. And look in the front seat. And the back seat. And in the trunk for good measure. But, guess what? You won't find the diaper bag because, guess what? It's sitting on the floor of the garage where you put it when you had to wrestle the toddler into the car seat.
So you will go back inside the waiting room where the 9-yr old is fighting back tears while she fights the squirming toddler who is turning various shades of red and purple because he is not happy he has been restrained for the past thirty-eight seconds, and you will take hold of the toddler and look at the 9-yr old and shamefully admit there are no diapers to be had and the 9-yr old will look at you in horror and disbelief at the exact same moment the toddler decides to vomit the full volume of the bottle he consumed not too long ago. And now, in addition to the baby manure stench, there is a rancid spoiled milk odor filling the air.
Thank God the doctor beckons as you're wiping up curdled milk from her carpet with the festive box of Puffs Plus and avoiding the disgusted stares of those around you. Nothing in the eyeball. (I waited in the hall with the stink kid.) Got my prescription and hightailed it out of there.
But do not fret. All was not in vain!
I got this super cool picture to remember the day:
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