|There was no gentle flower eating today|
This time we were there at 6 and out the door by 10:30. Though the last hour or two in the recovery room she was P.I.S.S.E.D. Angry like a bull trapped in a ring, poked once too often. We had multiple nurses stop by - is she in pain? Nauseous? Can we do anything for her? Can we do anything for YOU? (Booze didn't seem to be an option so I didn't ask) No, she was fully medicated, she was just really, really annoyed with the adults in her life. She screeched if I tried to put her down but then 30 seconds later would squirm out of my arms. Except she was still loopy and could barely stand, though would bat away my hand if I tried to steady her. So she would fall down onto her butt and then cry like she was the most neglected baby in the history of the world. FUN.
|One of the first books I remember reading|
by myself. This is my original copy...
so it's REALLY old.
Since I mentioned the anesthesiologist ... My MIL came with me during her first eye surgery (too long of a story to explain why) and after the decade long wait for them to start, we were both tired, and, dare I say it? A mite grumpy? And frazzled? Then the anesthesiologist came through the door - with a spot light and rising choir music. He was straight out of Central Casting - Clooney in scrubs redeux (I was a diehard ER fan...watched to the bitter end). If he didn't pay for medical school by modeling, then he ran up $100k in loans unnecessarily. But he was a YOUNG Clooney, ink barely dry on the diploma. And so with my MIL standing right beside me, about to hand my baby over for elective surgery (elective, thus not necessary to maintain life, thus perhaps not worthy of the risk? What am I doing risking her life just so she doesn't end up with a wall-eye? Bad superficial mom!)... So I'm about to hand my baby over to this stranger and am thinking, not necessarily in this order:
Please don't kill my child.
Maannn, you are HAWT (epitome of maturity, I am)
You are WAY too young for me
MIL is standing RIGHT THERE, she can probably read your mind.
You are WAY too young to be a real doctor
Please don't kill my child.
[Yes, Matt's heard this story. He also shared his jelly beans with me today, so must still like me despite my brief, parentally-supervised, wandering eye].
At least it was distracting. This time the sleepy time doc had, if not an actual diagnosis, then at least some pronounced social tics. And, um, while I'm sure he's a very nice man, a Clooney clone he was not. We'll know in about three months whether or not this fix stays fixed. Highly amusing was the doctor's answer on how often the second repair needs to be repaired - 10%. *sigh*
Totally unrelated & on the list of things you never thought you'd say:
To the boy, trying to avoid bedtime tonight by "helping": STOP DOING THE DISHES!