Today I took the 3 year old to the dermatologist. And the baby. The baby didn’t have an appointment but he had to come along, trapped in a stroller with a bad attitude and a strong desire to throw everything ON the GROUND.
My 3 year old has been “rashy” for months now. He’s had a little red patch on his face since May that I chalked up to eczema, but at some point it started to grow and over the course of the past few months and about four or five doctor appointments, it has been diagnosed as ringworm, eczema, ringworm, eczema with a bacteria infection, etc. We’ve tried three ointments in the past two weeks. When the Doctor told me authoritatively that it was eczema with an infection, I dutifully applied the antibiotic ointment. And then the red dots came. And they spread. And the Doctor told me to go to the dermatologist which, frankly I SHOULD HAVE DONE A MILLION YEARS AGO.
As I started to unload the children I realized I hadn’t packed any toys. Drat. Double drats. It was going to be a hard appointment. Suddenly my son was holding a whoopee cushion and I thought, “Fine. FINE! It’s better than screaming.”
And that’s how I brought a completely red and spotted 3 year old into a dermatologist’s waiting room with a whoopee cushion.
As I signed in, he wandered over to a chair in the corner. I started to talk to the receptionist when it started. “Thhptt. FFttpppttt! ThUUUPPT!”
It was remarkably loud. The receptionist was an older lady and she soldiered through her explanation on how to fill out “THBTTTT!” the “FTTTHPTTT!” paperwork. I have no idea what she said.
I started to question my original premise that fart noise is better than crying sounds. Is it? Is it really?
Another staff member wandered over and said, “Debbie*, what are you doing over here?”
“It’s not me,” she replied, “it’s her little boy over there.”
“SOOORRYYYY!” I said, but my apology seemed empty because it was fallowed by an especially loud “PTTPPOTOTOHTHHTP! FFTTTHHHHHPT!”
I sheepishly walked over to the chair next to the flatulent child. “Shel, please stop doing that, please.”
“Why you not want me to use my cushie cushie?” he asked.
My brain ran away. I didn’t even answer. How could I? Calling a whoopee cushion a cushie cushie? That’s when I realized I was defeated. How could I even? Say? What? I just hunched over my “THHPTT!” paperwork and tried to remember my “PFFFTT!” social security number.
*names were changed to protect the innocent
p.s. it was eczema and a virus. fun combination, but he only needs lotion.