We were at the pediatrician’s earlier this week because Nathan had the very early stages of pink eye coupled with an advanced case of an ear infection, which explained why he was waking up screaming every damn morning. It was especially unfortunate because his waking up usually coincided with my Javier Bardem-Colin Firth-man fantasy sequence.
While we were there, I showed the doctor a red pimple-like bump Nathan had on his shoulder. He examined it, prodded it with his thumb and index finger and looked at me. “It could be a pimple, an infected follicle, or it could be MRSA.”
“MRSA?” I replied, shocked that he would even mention a staph infection when I was certain it was just a buried pimple. “Don’t you mean, MENSA?”
“No, I said MRSA.”
“Yeah, I know you said that, but I only hear what I want to hear and right now I want to hear you say MENSA.”
The pediatrician didn’t cooperate but instead wrote a prescription for some antibiotics and gave me the number of the therapist who worked in the building.
Nathan’s doing much better. Can you tell?