Doctor Woes

Having a conversation with a four-year-old is like talking to a schizophrenic. The topic starts at one place and then migrates nonsensically to other places, never returning to the original topic or anything even remotely relating to the original topic. This type of conversing can be very unsatisfying if you are the type of person who likes closure. However, if you are a scatter-brained mommy like myself, these conversations can be quite amusing.

Sometimes.

Other times they can be unsettling. Disturbing even.

The other day Max and I were sitting on the couch having one of these round about discussions. It started like this:




Seems nice, right? I thanked him and told him that he had pretty hair too - when he let me brush it. (You can never miss a parenting opportunity in my opinion.)

Then the digression began.




This is a common complaint around our house. It usually means he just has a little excessive earwax build up. Or sometimes he's just fabricating an ailment to get attention. One of these days he's going to have an actual ear infection, but I probably won't believe him.

I said, "Oh no! We need to go to the hospital immediately."

He was silent for a moment of introspection. Then:




This comment isn't entirely unexpected from a four-year-old. But the next one was. Very unexpected.




For a brief moment, which doesn't happen often in my life, I was at a loss for words. My son thought a thermometer was synonymous with a screwdriver. It occurred to me suddenly how excruciating that must feel - to think that getting your temperature taken meant that you are getting a screwdriver stuck up your ass. I wondered momentarily if he meant an electric screwdriver or a simple Phillips head, but I didn't ask, don't worry.

"Max, it's called a thermometer, not a screwdriver. And the doctor never puts it in your bottom. She puts it under your arm."

But truth be told, being a nurse who strives for an accurate temperature, I do sometimes take his temperature rectally. But never, never, never again.**

Apparently his angst about large metal objects in his rectum didn't phase him as much as me.



"Yes, let's go. Right now!" I said, relieved by the schizophrenic break.

Why couldn't we have just stayed with the "mommy you have pretty hair" topic?

**The one caveat to the no rectal temperatures is if the horribly inaccurate under the arm method says 103 or higher. Then he's getting the screwdriver - errr, I mean thermometer - up the butt.

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