Yesterday’s blog alluded to Josh and his propensity for getting into trouble. It’s not the kind of trouble where he gets sent to the principal’s office all the time (although his record isn’t quite clean there either) but the kind of trouble that festers after taking root in a curious mind - kind of like Curious George who I affectionately refer to as the ‘idiot monkey’.
And yes, on more than one occasion, that has made me wonder if that makes Josh my idiot child or me the idiot mom who can’t stay one step ahead of her son when she knows that he and trouble go together as deliciously as spaghetti and meatballs.
When he was in his terrible two phase, we lived in a rather modest three bedroom tri-level. He made use of every inch of that place and drove me almost to the outer reaches of sanity. We ended up in the ER more times than I care to count – so frequent in fact, that they had a whole box superhero popsicles just for Josh since they calmed him right down and made examination and stitching easier.
After one very grueling summer, I went to my husband and presented him with a theory – if Josh had more room, maybe he’d not wonder off so much seeking out trouble.
We were into a new house by the end of the summer because as my husband says, a happy wife IS a happy life.
Unfortunately, a new house payment necessitated a bigger salary check which meant a change of jobs. Job stability didn’t stress me out nearly as much as a new insurance policy. Under the old regime, I knew I wouldn’t be brought up on child abuse or neglect charges by his medical care professionals because,….well,….they knew Josh. But I had no idea how we’d be received by a new team of doctors.
I found out two weeks later when we made our first trip to the ER.
I nervously entered the Instacare and placed my name on the waiting list. When it was my turn to do the paperwork, the nice lady asked who his primary care physician was. I told her we’d just changed insurances and he didn’t have one yet. My second son, Mitch, (the one who had a better vocabulary at five than I can ever hope to have) quickly informed the lady, “Oh yes he does! His name is Emergency Room and Mom takes us there to see him about every day with Josh!”
I smiled, although the knot in my stomach made me want to puke, and tried to explain about my “curious” son without coming across as a monstrous mother. The doctor then came around the corner laughing and gave me another “Life Saver”,
“So you have one of those do you? You know, I’ve always wondered, if most accidents happen at home, shouldn’t we all just move? It’d make my job a heck of a lot easier….”
Even though my pocketbook couldn’t afford such a transient lifestyle or the lawsuits brought on by not keeping a toddler with a devastation level equal to a category 5 hurricane under lock and key, I do know that God must’ve smiled on me that day because there, at the Instacare amongst stitching kits, gauze, Neosporin and prescription pads, was a doctor I could really bond with!