I recently accepted a part-time teaching job at a private school in our area. I know, I'm very fortunate. In this tough economy, most people are happy just to hold onto the jobs they have, let alone find new employment opportunities that just so happen to meet their family's every conceivable need.
However, right now I must admit that I'd rather be accepting a job at Hogwarts. Maybe as their new professor of phlegmology? Then I could point a wand right at my nose and cast the disappearing spell, "EVANESCO SNOT-O!"
I'm sick of being sick.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Is There a Doctah in the House?
Bubby always had a way with words. They usually went something like, "You never call, you never write...," or "A little makeup couldn't hurt every once in a while," or "Are you really going out looking like that?" The words I heard most often growing up were, "I don't care who you marry as long as he's a Jewish doctor." She was slightly hung up on the idea. I could've been a drug dealer or double agent to the Russians and she would've been as happy as a matzo ball backstroking in a bowl of chicken soup so long as I was married to a chosen physician.
Honk never had a chance with her. ("Not a Jew?" "Not a DOCTOR?") Eventually though, the surfing gentile won her over with his charm and equally sarcastic wit. But not without any residue. For the remainder of her life, she never called him by his first name. Claiming "senior moments", Bubby always referred to him as "Sheldon" in a desperate attempt to Jew-ify his last name. He got her back by always responding to her with some random name, "Yes, Nancy?"
I think she was still secretly hoping I'd make it up to her by becoming a doctor myself. That's the least a good Jewish girl could do for her Bubby, right? But recently I was reminded just how far I really was from fulfilling the medical dreams Bubby had for me.
I had just picked up Lil' Miss from preschool and was meeting Katy and the boys over at Rubio's for lunch. The kids were all huddled around the gigantic aquarium while we were deciding what to order. Suddenly, the room was filled with the shrieking screams of a baby. My baby. I spun around and found Baby Dude hunched over on the ground, his head just inches away from the corner of a metal post. He was screaming hysterically. I raced over, picked him up, and that's when I noticed the blood pouring out of his forehead. There was a deep gash above his left eye. It was gruesome, right out of a horror movie. I'm pretty sure I saw tendons, muscles, and maybe even a few organs exposed in that wound. Blood was spilling out of it and streaming down his face, onto his clothes, and onto my clothes.
There wasn't a moment to lose. Baby Dude needed medical attention, stat! While I was no doctor, I figured it was as good a time as any to prove that I could act like one. And that's exactly what I would have done if the room hadn't started spinning and my legs hadn't turned to rubber. I just stood there, holding my screaming, blood-gushing boy, and crying right along with him. I was about as useful as a latka in a frisbee contest.
But, thankfully, help was on its way. Katy immediately grabbed paper towels and applied pressure to his wound to stop the bleeding (which evidently is a much better approach than just standing there moaning, "I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!"). Katy fielded questions and suggestions from the concerned customers crowding around us. Katy kindly refused the creepy church leader's offer to stay at Rubios and watch our other kids while she and I took Baby Dude to the hospital (freak!). Katy moved car seats and ushered all of us into her van after everyone in Rubio's begged her not to let me get behind the wheel. Katy drove us to the ER, steering with one hand and passing out suckers and fruit loops to all of our sobbing children in the back seats with the other. Katy did damage control after hearing my hysterical, hardly-coherent phone call to Honk in which I instructed him to "LEAVE WORK IMMEDIATELY, THERE'S BEEN A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT!" Katy quickly called him back and whispered into the phone, "Your son's fine, but you need to go to the ER and be with your wife." Katy basically saved the day.
When Honk arrived at the ER a few minutes later, he too was a cool cucumber. He calmly picked up our boy, checked out the gash and commented, "Nice one, Frankenstein." Honk helped hold Baby Dude down while the doctors glued his head back together. He watched them with the interest and intensity of an observing medical student. I, on the other hand, stood shaking in the corner, facing the wall with my back to our precious little boy until they were done. As we left the ER, Honk turned to me and asked, "Honey, why are you such a wuss? Seriously, you need to toughen up. He's a BOY. We're gonna be back here with this kid like eighty more times in the next fifteen years." (Don't sugar coat it, Honk. Tell me how you really feel!)
No, I'm still not even close to doctor material and I have a strong feeling that I won't be much better in the future. But I'm sure Bubby would be proud of me. I may not know how to stomach the gory messes of life, but I sure know how to surround myself with people who do. And that's worth some kind of degree, isn't it?
Honk never had a chance with her. ("Not a Jew?" "Not a DOCTOR?") Eventually though, the surfing gentile won her over with his charm and equally sarcastic wit. But not without any residue. For the remainder of her life, she never called him by his first name. Claiming "senior moments", Bubby always referred to him as "Sheldon" in a desperate attempt to Jew-ify his last name. He got her back by always responding to her with some random name, "Yes, Nancy?"
I think she was still secretly hoping I'd make it up to her by becoming a doctor myself. That's the least a good Jewish girl could do for her Bubby, right? But recently I was reminded just how far I really was from fulfilling the medical dreams Bubby had for me.
I had just picked up Lil' Miss from preschool and was meeting Katy and the boys over at Rubio's for lunch. The kids were all huddled around the gigantic aquarium while we were deciding what to order. Suddenly, the room was filled with the shrieking screams of a baby. My baby. I spun around and found Baby Dude hunched over on the ground, his head just inches away from the corner of a metal post. He was screaming hysterically. I raced over, picked him up, and that's when I noticed the blood pouring out of his forehead. There was a deep gash above his left eye. It was gruesome, right out of a horror movie. I'm pretty sure I saw tendons, muscles, and maybe even a few organs exposed in that wound. Blood was spilling out of it and streaming down his face, onto his clothes, and onto my clothes.
There wasn't a moment to lose. Baby Dude needed medical attention, stat! While I was no doctor, I figured it was as good a time as any to prove that I could act like one. And that's exactly what I would have done if the room hadn't started spinning and my legs hadn't turned to rubber. I just stood there, holding my screaming, blood-gushing boy, and crying right along with him. I was about as useful as a latka in a frisbee contest.
But, thankfully, help was on its way. Katy immediately grabbed paper towels and applied pressure to his wound to stop the bleeding (which evidently is a much better approach than just standing there moaning, "I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!"). Katy fielded questions and suggestions from the concerned customers crowding around us. Katy kindly refused the creepy church leader's offer to stay at Rubios and watch our other kids while she and I took Baby Dude to the hospital (freak!). Katy moved car seats and ushered all of us into her van after everyone in Rubio's begged her not to let me get behind the wheel. Katy drove us to the ER, steering with one hand and passing out suckers and fruit loops to all of our sobbing children in the back seats with the other. Katy did damage control after hearing my hysterical, hardly-coherent phone call to Honk in which I instructed him to "LEAVE WORK IMMEDIATELY, THERE'S BEEN A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT!" Katy quickly called him back and whispered into the phone, "Your son's fine, but you need to go to the ER and be with your wife." Katy basically saved the day.
When Honk arrived at the ER a few minutes later, he too was a cool cucumber. He calmly picked up our boy, checked out the gash and commented, "Nice one, Frankenstein." Honk helped hold Baby Dude down while the doctors glued his head back together. He watched them with the interest and intensity of an observing medical student. I, on the other hand, stood shaking in the corner, facing the wall with my back to our precious little boy until they were done. As we left the ER, Honk turned to me and asked, "Honey, why are you such a wuss? Seriously, you need to toughen up. He's a BOY. We're gonna be back here with this kid like eighty more times in the next fifteen years." (Don't sugar coat it, Honk. Tell me how you really feel!)
No, I'm still not even close to doctor material and I have a strong feeling that I won't be much better in the future. But I'm sure Bubby would be proud of me. I may not know how to stomach the gory messes of life, but I sure know how to surround myself with people who do. And that's worth some kind of degree, isn't it?
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