Like I have a medical degree.
You know that person who every time he meets a girl working at a strip club she turns out to be psycho so you just want to turn to him and yell for the love of cheese - stop picking up girls in strip joints!
Or that mom who every time her kids get hurt she thinks it's not a big deal but it turns out to be pretty important, like the time her daughter broke her arm in two places yet she drove around with the kid to do errands (and vote) and days later the doctors were all what kind of mother are you?! And that same mother probably didn't take the whole broken nose or torn ligament thing seriously either, so you just want to scream at her for the love of cheese - just take your kids to the ER!
I'm sort of like one of those kinds of people. But less of the picking up chicks in strip clubs kind.
(Thank goodness because I do not think I could've lived down another ignored broken limb.)
Or that mom who every time her kids get hurt she thinks it's not a big deal but it turns out to be pretty important, like the time her daughter broke her arm in two places yet she drove around with the kid to do errands (and vote) and days later the doctors were all what kind of mother are you?! And that same mother probably didn't take the whole broken nose or torn ligament thing seriously either, so you just want to scream at her for the love of cheese - just take your kids to the ER!
I'm sort of like one of those kinds of people. But less of the picking up chicks in strip clubs kind.
So, this weekend Dotter took a digger on her bike. And her whining was driving me crazy. I finally took her in after she screamed, "I could die because of loss of blood, Mom!" (To her credit, it was still bleeding, but not like, gallons worth.)
You'd think she broke her leg or something.
It was a skinned knee, people!
Okay. A little swollen, perhaps.
Or maybe even a lot swollen...
But it wasn't broken.
HA!
However, we will be meeting a nice orthopedic surgeon this Wednesday morning.
Which happens to be the same day as wristband night at the county fair.
Which was the absolute last thing this little girl wanted to hear.
(When you're 9, it's all about the rides.)
(When you're 38, it's all about the cream puffs.)
(When you're 9, it's all about the rides.)
(When you're 38, it's all about the cream puffs.)
"This is the absolute worst summer of my life!" she wailed.
"Oh, please," I said, hoping to invite some perspective to the conversation. "You said that last summer after you slammed your fingers in the car door."
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Hope Dotter is feeling better soon.