Yesterday, after supper, I flopped down in exhaustion. Right on the armchair like Raggedy Ann. It had been one heck of a day. Not that it was unique or anything. I am 49 years old, and I have a lot of kids. Exhaustion is my middle name.
“Mom!” a teenager comments, “I didn’t know you could sit like that!”
I was too tired to care. Yes, even old moms flop on chairs and put their feet up. Within seconds, I had dozed off.
“Michelle?” I hear a small voice. “Michelle?”
I open my eyes just a crack, and see Small One standing near me. She is holding a clipboard, and wearing glasses and her sister’s long, white, button-down sweater. This can only mean one thing.
“Michelle? Are you ready for your doctor’s appointment?”
Oh dear.
It’s my fault. I could have been promoting her possible future career as a hair stylist or masseuse. If I had done that, maybe she would be standing by my chair, wanting to rub my feet. But no. This kid’s been told her whole life that if she wants to, she can be a doctor.
So she’s here to draw my blood.
With a pencil.
I smile wanly as she takes my arm and pushes up my sleeve.
“See, that didn’t hurt much!” she says, taping a bandage to the inside of my elbow. She begins to question me, writing notes furiously on her clipboard. She confers with her sister, who is playing the nurse. They whisper back and forth about my being tired and having sore feet. She examines the pencil, holding it up to the light and peering intently.
“O.K. The blood test results are in,” the little doctor says. “and I have great news:
You’re pregnant!”
“Mom!” a teenager comments, “I didn’t know you could sit like that!”
I was too tired to care. Yes, even old moms flop on chairs and put their feet up. Within seconds, I had dozed off.
“Michelle?” I hear a small voice. “Michelle?”
I open my eyes just a crack, and see Small One standing near me. She is holding a clipboard, and wearing glasses and her sister’s long, white, button-down sweater. This can only mean one thing.
“Michelle? Are you ready for your doctor’s appointment?”
Oh dear.
It’s my fault. I could have been promoting her possible future career as a hair stylist or masseuse. If I had done that, maybe she would be standing by my chair, wanting to rub my feet. But no. This kid’s been told her whole life that if she wants to, she can be a doctor.
So she’s here to draw my blood.
With a pencil.
I smile wanly as she takes my arm and pushes up my sleeve.
“See, that didn’t hurt much!” she says, taping a bandage to the inside of my elbow. She begins to question me, writing notes furiously on her clipboard. She confers with her sister, who is playing the nurse. They whisper back and forth about my being tired and having sore feet. She examines the pencil, holding it up to the light and peering intently.
“O.K. The blood test results are in,” the little doctor says. “and I have great news:
You’re pregnant!”
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