It wasn’t quite the Boston Crab, the famed wrestling move, but it was close.
And all the while I felt terrible, not because I was being physically assaulted but because of my aching heart.
Even when I think back to the moment last night, I could cry.
When it comes to you guys and your health, it feels like whenever I think something is nothing it turns out to be something. When I think something is something and rush you in to a doctor she’s like, um, this is fine, what are you doing here?
(Hence the never-ending guessing game that is motherhood.)
Then there’s the case of doctors–and forgive me, for I am no doctor!–but nobody wants to be the one to “miss something,” especially in today’s lawsuit happy/quick to point a finger age. You. Sometimes I feel like doctors feel like (you: great writing!) they have to prescribe something. They have to say something. So they give you something or they send you somewhere. There’s erring on the side of caution, which I’m all for, then there’s, well…
Take the incident of Baby Boy’s snoring…
People snore, right?
Your dad snores (see earlier entries from when I was pregnant with you guys, references to “the lumberjack”).
But apparently, kids are not supposed to snore–as everyone said. (Who? Everyone. Everyone is an expert when it comes to raising children, didn’t you know?)
So, I brought you, son, into the doctor as a perfectly healthy boy.
Hey! My kid snores!
A quick look up the nose led to the discovery: The inside of his nose looks red. (As it should after we had colds for the entire month of January, no? But here I go again, I’m no doctor!)
This led to a visit to a specialist, an ENT.
Structurally, fine. Adenoids, fine. Ears, tonsils, breathing, fine. Sleeping at night even with the snoring? Fine. What, it’s just occasional snoring? Fine.
We left the office with a diagnosis of “rhinitist”–in English, a stuffy/runny nose–two packs of glow in the dark star stickers, a salt/antibiotic solution and a syringe to shoot it up your nose.
What was that? You ask.
Two packs of glow in the dark star stickers.
Oh, and a syringe to shoot medicine up your nose.
Needless to say, the vertical syringe shooting has not been going well.
You cry, Baby Boy. You cry, and cry, and fight, and my heart breaks, and I pin you down, and you cry.
(I hate it.)
Last night was the final straw, the ultimate battle of which you one.
You were fighting me so hard as I was trying to hold you down to give you this medicine. You ran and hid in bed under your covers. I had to pull you out. You were crying so much, it was terrible.
As we wrestled on the ground, the screams grew louder. Then I realized it was because they were in surround sound. Your sister, too, started crying and was charging at me from the side. She was in her spider monkey on fire mode, and she was mad. Before I knew what was happening, she was whacking me on the head trying to get me stop hurting you.
She was fast and furious. She was like the monkey from The Hangover movies.
So I’m sorry, Baby Boy.
I’m so sorry. I have to get better at making my own decisions in terms of what’s best for you. Rhinitis Schminitis. No more medicine you don’t need. I knew it, I know it, you’re fine.
As hard as it is I’ll stop listening to everyone–that is, of course, except for your sister. She knows what’s best for you. Lucky for us, she has your back.