One Day

Younger has always wanted to be six foot tall and bullet proof. He has somewhat accepted he will never be bullet proof. He still has hope for the six foot tall.

While at the doctor’s office the other day, the nurse indicated for Younger to position himself against the measuring tape. And I grinned because that is the straightest I ever see that young man’s back.

The nurse went up on tiptoes and declared, “Five-eleven.”

And total frustration wrinkled Younger’s face.

I laughed.

But as I went to hug him last night, having to reach up to encircle his shoulders, I said, “I love you, my five-eleven son.”

Grinning, he hung his head a little. “Was I that obvious?”

“You did grow an inch, though,” I encouraged him.

He shrugged. “I think that was my hair.” He tugged at his no-longer-blond locks with his fingers. “It was pouf-y.” Then he frowned. “But she could have rounded up. How hard is that? Just round up, lady.”

One day, he will accept that his height is perfect for him, at whatever inch he stops growing.

And one day, I will accept that he is no longer measured in inches and does not fit in the crook of one arm.

One day.

 

 

Advertisements

This Is a Test

Today, I thought I would share a story from 2002…

When I arrived at the doctor’s office for Younger’s three-year well check-up, the receptionist handed me a clipboard. After settling into an empty seat, I glanced at the questionnaire, somewhat dismayed that Younger’s participation would be required. But I followed the instructions, pointing at pictures and listening to answers.

Then he had to find various body parts and the questionnaire specifically instructed that they be attached to my body. We managed eyes, ears, nose, hand and feet without any difficulty. We were smiling and happy — until I asked him about my stomach. Suddenly, I found my face suffocated in the folds of my white cotton shirt as Younger searched for his directed goal.

“Younger,” I gasped, struggling to tug the hem of my shirt to its usual position well below my waistline.

“What?” he asked innocently. “I found your belly.”

So, with great composure, I circled the “yes, my child found two or more body parts” and moved on to the next question which had me attempting to successfully balance on one foot for longer than three seconds in the middle of a crowded waiting room.

I know who these people are testing and it is not the children.

Best Medicine

A few weeks ago, Younger thought he might have strep throat, so off to the doctor we went. Now, he’s had his throat swabbed — and gagged and gagged — often enough that I didn’t even consider reminding him of the process. But, apparently, when the nurse had finished with the preliminary questions and, snapping plastic gloves onto her hands, announced, “Now for the fun part,” Younger momentarily forgot the usual strategy.

But, off to the side and a little behind him, I totally missed his brief moment of panic. Fortunately, he shared his appalled reaction with me the second the nurse stepped from the room.

“Mom,” he said, turning to me with wide eyes while hunched on the small, padded table. “When she said that about the fun part and was putting on those gloves, I got a little concerned. I just about told her, ‘Hey, lady, I just came in here for a sore throat.'”

Apparently, he had a moment of fear that she intended to check orifices he hadn’t brought there to be checked.

I laughed at him.

“I thought,” he continued over my giggling, his eyes still round as he blinked at me, “I thought my day was going downhill in a hurry.”

And so I laughed with even more amusement.

I reckon it might not have much effect on a sore throat, but for this exhausted mother who had run from work to the school to the doctor’s office and still had the pharmacy and Elder’s basketball game to go…

Laughter really is the best medicine.