Have you ever been at a soccer game and said to another parent: “Your kid is going to be the next David Beckham…” or maybe you’ve seen a little girl dancing around in a tutu and you think to yourself, “She could be a wonderful ballerina one day.”
Every now and then my 3-1/2 year old daughter, Sweet Pea, will abandon her princess costumes in favor of her fully loaded doctor coat. When that lab coat goes on, a transformation occurs. She might as well come flying out of a phone booth because when she is wearing The Coat, she firmly believes herself to be a doctor. In fact, if visitors are over and they observe her style and behavior, they usually proceed to tell us that there is a good chance she may become a doctor one day. Those well meaning visitors keep a bit of vital information to themselves though. They think we don’t know, but oh…we do. The truth is, if Sweet Pea does, in fact, become a doctor– those people will never make an appointment with her because not only is she the meanest and WORST doctor EVER, her bedside manner blows.
Dr. I’m-So-Mean will prance around the house, faced wrapped in a surgical mask of delusional arrogance, and give shots. It’s very misleading because you think she’s going to be all nice and professional as she politely asks: “Can I be the doctor to you?” But after you comply, you’re done. Every once in awhile she will take your temperature and pronounce it as “18-42-1 80,” but most of the time, she doesn’t bother. She won’t even take the time to do a routine check-up. As soon as you give her the green light and agree to being her patient, she will declare, with a great deal of authority, that “You need a shot.” And it’s never just one shot. Today I got a shot in the arm, one in the rib and one in the forehead. Yo, unless that syringe is full of botox, back off the forehead. She’s a hack. Board certified? Negative.
When Sweet Pea finally puts the shot down, little 19-month-old Lovey picks it up. Now I’ve got that one running around the house, completely aimless, screaming like a deranged lunatic looking for someone or something to stab. Good luck, honey–the shot you’re gripping is upside down. Doesn’t matter. She nails me. Right in the thigh. She goes for the thigh again. Same spot! She is giggling, I’m not. Wait. Is she leaving? Oh no… she’s just re-loading.
She’ll be back. They’ll both be back. It’s futile for me to hope they return with some compassion (Nurse Ratchet was nicer). I’m not even expecting a procedural explanation or an alcohol swab. I’ll take my shots until they move on to something else– I’m the mommy, that’s my job.
A Hello Kitty band-aid every once in a while really wouldn’t kill them though.
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