According to my children’s stories, I am the queen of mothering catastrophe. This crowning glory comes at a price. Every pediatrician I’ve ever met thinks I am parental knucklehead at best. I’m not sure if storytelling is an inherited trait, but when the doctor asks the simplest of casual questions, my kids embark on a graphic word tirade that makes me cringe and the doctor laugh, eyebrows raised in my direction.
I once had to promise on my grandmother’s Bible that I was not feeding my son squirrels every night for dinner. Seriously, I can barely cook beef. What would I do with a squirrel?
Not only that, but my son ate his first Twinkie in school last month. Am I even an American? Could I possibly have withheld Twinkies from my son for a full ten years? I’m not sure if I should be proud or repent?
So last week when I brought my son to the doctor for his annual checkup, I knew that I was going to spend twenty minutes laughing at my kid’s antics. I was not disappointed. The theatrics began before the doctor even entered the examining room. My son clutched his stomach, began groaning, and begged for help because he was bleeding to death.
This is what the audience of doctors and nurses heard.
“Hhhelp! *gasp* I, I’m bleeding… *gasp* I’m cut and I’m gonna die. *gasp*
The doctor asked him if he was enjoying his snow days and he said, “Not so much today. My mom made me shovel all day.”
Hello! I endured the pains of labor so I could birth a son to shovel for me. It’s the least he could do!
Your turn. Spill the beans.
What do your kids say about you?