Are you serious?!

Jory didn't sleep well on Sunday night. He kept waking up periodically saying his foot hurt. I wasn't sure if it really hurt or it was the memory of his foot hurting or if he was just Jory being all male aka "I'm dying" about his foot. For a second I panicked, maybe when he jumped off the bed he hit his toes and they're broken. I quickly turned on
the light, checked out his toes, and even though he cried I made him wiggle his toes so I could make sure they weren't broken. His big toe and its side companion moved so we were all good on the broken front.

On Monday, it was obvious he couldn't go to school so Aunt Brenda, who is also a nurse, took him home with her. She said, well his toe could be fractured and if it is he would still be able to move his toe. Thanks for that uplifting piece of knowledge, Auntie. They were off with promises to call when she got home. I prayed his toes were fractured.

A few hours later, she called to say she didn't think his toes were fractured, but that he did have a sore on the ball of his foot and she thought some of the splinter might have remained in his foot. So a trip to the doctor was in order.

On Monday, I called the doctor's office to make an walk-in appointment. The scheduling nurse told me all their walk-in appointments had been filled so we would have to come in on Tuesday to see the doctor. Really!?!? Really?! So if I walked into the doctor's office with my crying son, who can't walk on his left foot, he wouldn't be seen? I highly doubted this, but I couldn't take off work and Oma was feeling well so she didn't feel like waiting for a few hours in the doctor's office to test the theory so I made the appointment for Tuesday morning.

I took everyone to the doctor with me and I was slightly apprehensive because I took an appointment not with Jory's regular, wonderful, kindhearted doctor, but with one of the other ones. We were sent to an exam room, the doctor walked in and he gave stickers to the girls, talked to Jory, and seemed very pleasant. Look-a-there, I thought, the doctor has discovered his bedside manner. Then he looked at Jory's foot, then turned to talk to me and I thought, nope, it's only for kids. He still has the bedside manner of a ganat. Yep, a ganat. UGH!

As he was, I'm sure in his own head gently reprimanding me, for not bringing Jory into the office sooner, it was on the tip of my tongue to rat out his scheduling person, but I held my tongue. Jory got some anti-biotics and we were off.

Let me say carrying around 42 pounds is extremely different and more difficult than carrying around 25 pounds. And it's difficult to keep the Irish twins contained when I'm carting Jory around. When the baby is on my hip, we are still steppin'. We're not missing a beat. But with my first baby on my hip, yikes! When did 42 pounds become so heavy? Or rather when did my firstborn start weighing two tons of fun?!?!

And on top of the carrying issue, Oma kept calling wanting updates. I finally had to ignore her calls. She obviously had never been to the doctor carrying a six-year-old, while making sure a four-year-old and a three-year-old didn't find any mischief in the doctor's office or get off on the wrong floor while riding the elevator, while carrying a heavy purse.

How did we end up here from a simple splinter?