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Dermatologists are strange creatures. Being a nurse, I’ve run into a whole slew of doctors, and I have to say, dermatologists are the strangest of the lot.

Let me back up for a second: back in August, at Ben’s 6 year old checkup my non-alarmist ped (which I love, love, love, especially since he is our GP. He’s an old military doctor, very no nonsense and I adore him) noticed a mole on his back that he wanted someone else to take a look at. I felt pretty bad, mainly because I’m trained to notice this sort of stuff and I hadn’t. Probably because at 6, I don’t often examine Ben’s body sans clothes.

So I dutifully made the appointment for him, and yesterday I pulled him out of school to visit this dermatologist. And thus began the day that should have been good.

We waited for over an hour to see this guy only to have him quiz me incessiantly about the state of this mole, when it popped out, if there had been any changes in it, if it bothered Ben whatsoever. When I confessed that I had no idea about anything to do with it (to me it looks fine, and I never would have thought to have a specialist take a gander, but hey, I trust my GP/ped impeccibly). We were sent on our way, slightly creeped out by his strange manner (he spent a good time stroking Ben’s large head of hair, which was just strange and made me take a mental note to NEVER, EVER leave my child alone with this man) with an appointment for 3 months to check if it’s changed.

My error came on the way home when I decided to keep Ben home from school for the rest of the day. Visions of having two children home together playing sweetly danced in my head, which turned out to be just that: pipe dreams.

Alex was furious because he had to go poop and couldn’t seem to actually do it (damn you mushed bananas, you will never grace his palate again–I should have known better–the B in the BRAT diet does stand for bananas).

Ben was unhappy because he was tired and bored and wanted to play with his frrrrriiiiieeeennnndddsss, which meant his normally decent attention span was less than that of a mosquito and he was supremely whiny.

The whole day was like being pecked to death by two extremely cute chickens with the only highlight being when Ben decided to “play” with his brother while he was in his Exersaucer. Pretty much, all that Ben has to do is get down next to Alex’s face and make noise to make Alex belly laugh. It’s freaking adorable.

I was waiting for the sweet salvation of bedtime to relax and unwind for an hour or two. Har-dee-har-freaking-harr.

As Alex was finally falling asleep nearly an hour after his normal bedtime, Dave let the dog out…

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

And the dog, in his infinate wisdom, decided that RIGHT NOW was the appropriate time to tangle with the neighborhood skunk yet again. Off to the garage with H2O2 and baking soda again.

Then we realized that the reason for the exorbitant electric bill was not due to turning the A/C temperature down at night, but was due to the fact that the unit is now starting to fail. Thankfully, it’s September in Chicago, and we should be able to live off box fans (I’m deluded, I’m aware).

After the dog had been sucessfully cleaned, the baby began to scream loudly. And continued to scream on and off every time that I started to fall asleep, until I finally gave up and just slept holding him all night long (which reminded me of those glorious newborn days).

It’s lucky that I long ago decided to take this parenting thing one day at a time.

(but how do people with 2+ kids manage? I wish I knew)

I remember back in the day before Ben was talking normally, people’d always tell me “Once they start talking, they’ll talk back” and I remember thinking that that was the stupidest thing to tell someone whose child is verbally delayed. No shit, he’d talk back, but that sure beats the hell outta biweekly speech therapy.

Suddenly, I have blissfully begun to imagine a world in which LITTLE PEOPLE WERE QUIET in a way I’d never have imagined. I used to threaten Ben by telling him I’d sell him to the gypsies, of which he heard “chippies” and began to ASK to go to the chippies, because of course, that is junk food and junk food + Ben = heaven on earth. So I had to rethink what I was threatening him with.

Now I cannot seem to get the kid to shut his trap for more than 28 seconds at a time, because Lord knows his head might explode if he couldn’t narrate whatever the hell he was doing at a particular time. Half the time, it’s hilarious, but the other half drives me nuts because although I can completely ignore whatever is coming out of Dave’s mouth at any given time “blah, blah, blah, shut the cabinets after you’re done, Becky, blah, blah, blah,” I seem to be utterly unable to ignore Ben.

Not that he lets me ignore him for just a moment: “Mom, this juice is sour, grape juice is sour, Juicy Juice is 100% juice, grape juice is sour, yummy so yummy in my tummy, grape juice is sour AND yummy in my tummy tummy tummy, but I can’t drink it on the carpet because you know what will happen? MOM, do you know what will happen? MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM DO YOU KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF I DRINK THE JUICE ON THE CARPET? MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!?!?!”

Until I finally have to answer him. And if I, by chance, am able to ignore him, he will continue monologuing (giving Dave a run for his monologing money) until I respond at increasingly louder intervals and my entire head of hair has turned completely grey.

But that isn’t what is driving me crazy lately, suprisingly. What’s driving me mad is that he will interject into any other conversation I may be having with someone else and try to join in. Whether or not he knows what he is talking about. This morning, I got a lecture on the amount of hashbrowns he was about to get from the drive thru which he didn’t understand yet because he hadn’t seen what I was talking about, which sounds less annoying on virtual paper than it was in real life. Let’s try again, so you can fully grasp what I am talking about:

Pretend you are having an intelligent conversation with a coworker about, say, particle physics (assuming, of course, that both of you know something about this), something of which I know absolutely nothing, and I walk up to you and start to tell you that the proper answer to what you are discussing is “obviously hot dog buns.” And when you inform me that I am wrong, and maybe I don’t know enough to be having this conversation with you, I begin to draw diagrams of why hot dog buns IS right and YOU are wrong.

Because six year olds know it all, even if they don’t.

So I’m going to revise my threat, I am going to see if the gypsies need a slightly chubby nurse to join them LIKE RIGHT NOW.

Seriously now, how many blogs can one person have? Okay, so I have 2, but I update pretty regularly now.

Then I found this, and realized that if this is not you, there’s a frightening sub-culture out there that I’d never known.

I don’t know which is a scarier thought.

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