W. C. Fields was my kind of parent.
Yesterday, I took Michael back to the pediatrician for the third time this week. He looked like hell: eyes red and watery, face covered with dirt embedded snot, nose running like a faucet. The most pitiful 3 year-old in the place.
June Cleaver and her fellow founding-partner of the "Let's make mothers feel inadequate for all eternity club", Harriet Nelson, would hover worriedly over their sons while telling the doctor that they can't bear to see their little babies in pain.
I, on the other hand, say to the doctor: "You have to do something about this. I can't handle all this whining and crying! If he doesn't get better soon, I'm going to lose my mind!"
That's the bad news.
The good news is he seems to be somewhat better today and I haven't had to yell, "If you think you're going to throw up, get in the bathroom!" once.
Maybe we're finally on the road to recovery after all.
