My maternal grandmother was a nurse. Better still, she was an Irish nurse. I never really knew her; she died when I a little baby.
But I like to think that our family doctor here in Saskatoon is a little like she must have been. From the Island, a gazillion years of experience, knows every possible childhood malady and isn't afraid to just let said maladies run their course when necessary.
She also adores and dotes on the Boys, which of course makes her extra special.
So Boy2 had his two-month doctor checkup yesterday. In her words, he's 'a bonny wee man' and the sun probably rises in his eyes. We were a little concerned, because he's a little bowlegged and produces an inordinate amount of spit. But the Dr looked him over and pronounced him healthy and whole. We were pretty happy.
But then we had to take him to the public health unit today for his shots.
Today, we have a flatheaded, clubfooted, possibly 'non-responding' baby according to the public health nurse.
Boy2 adores the doctor. Smiles, big eyes, tracking, reaching, his little trademark cooing noises. Definitely did not like the nurse. So he ignored her.
I can remember sitting through parent-teacher interviews and hearing my teachers suggest that I should be moved to 'special' classes because I 'had problems paying attention'. Bless my mother for telling those people where to go, how to get there, and what to do upon arrival.
Dear Lord, please don't let my boys be saddled with the same sort of idjits I had to deal with!
1 comment:
Since he snuggled right into my arms I think I can safely say that he is perfect and don't let anyone tell you different!
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