Dr. Mom

The Boy has strep throat.

I’d had to leave work early to take him to an urgent care office in Tampa, since there are none that take our insurance close to his campus in St Pete.

Argh! So not what you want to find out two and a half weeks before you relocate waaay outside a reasonable commuting distance from your baby.

The office I took him to is really seedy with a physician whose name I don’t even attempt to pronounce and whose hairpiece is stark black against what remains of his graying hair. We’ve been there before and knew what to expect, and the doc’s fairly awesome… despite the fact that his accent is so thick. Boy’s first answer to every one of his questions was “What?”

In less than fifteen minutes we were out the door with the diagnosis and two scripts.

While we were waiting for CVS to fill the script – only one as apparently only backroom pharmacies can fill the other – when Boy pointed to a special instructions sign next to the register and said, “I left special instructions for the pizza I ordered online the other day. I gave directions on how to get into the building and told them the delivery guy had to knock three times fast and wait for a count of ten. Then he had to knock once, knock twice, and then say ‘pumpernickel’.”

“Did he do it?”

“Yeah, but when I opened the door he looked scared to death.”

Boy,” I said and rolled my eyes.

“It’s okay, Mom. I tipped him.”

And in spite of myself, I laughed. Nobody can crack me up like my kid can.

My family is sprinkled with cut-ups, and there really seems to be a gene I missed out on. Oh, I have my moments, but they’re few and far between. But it’s a trade-off, isn’t it? To be funny or have great timing or just think of that awesome comeback right when I need it instead of an hour later, what would I have to give up?

Too hard.

I think I’ll just stick to my role as the straight man and let other people make me laugh. I mean, for the most part.

Besides there’s a kind of magic to those times when I do hit it just right, and not only does the person I’m talking with laugh but their eyes widen with surprise and what’s almost a look of admiration at this rarely tapped into talent.

So I’m not funny. So what? Someone’s got to be in the audience. Someone’s got to be the one who laughs. ‘Cause laughing at your own jokes is just bad form. ;p

And if it makes The Boy feel better when he makes me laugh, well, isn’t that the best medicine of all?

 

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