Viral Russian Roulette

You think 6 years of motherhood would have taught me something by now.  I should know that my excitement over the ability to sleep in will be short-lived.  It should be ingrained in my head that if my children are in still bed after 8:00a.m., there is a 99.9% certainty that they are ill.

So, here we are again.  The pediatrician’s office.  My home away from home.

{ Insert Cheers theme music here…♪♪ Where everybody knows your name…♪♪ }

After being greeted by the all-too-familiar office staff (most of whom will make the Christmas list this year), we begin our game of Viral Russian Roulette.  Though I am always thankful for being “worked in” for an appointment, the extended wait time in this human petri dish makes my skin crawl.  Loaded up on probiotics and Purel, my son begins his tour of the room.  Bouncing from chair to chair, swinging from the check-in counter, flirting with the front office staff, at least 2 trips to the bathroom, and finally settling in to play with the dreaded waiting room toys.  These sticky, disease laden objects should have hazmat labels.  And what is wrong with my son?  At 4 years old, he is still determined to put things in his mouth.  I’ve even seen him lick a waiting room chair.  Really??  He has a death wish.

His name is called.  Hooray!  Now begins the wait in the smaller petri dish.  This is where the magic happens.  As if stepping into a paradoxical universe, all illness, disease, and pain will vanish instantaneously.  An inevitable “all-better syndrome” is developed.  Symptoms gone.  Fever vanished.  A surge of energy equivalent to a monkey on Red Bull sends him running around the exam table.  Upon physician examination, questions like, “How do you feel?” and “Where does it hurt?” will be answered with, “Fine.” and “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Thank you, son.  Thank you for transforming me from concerned mother to neurotic hypochondriac in mere seconds.  I’m now seemingly “that mom” who carries her kid to the doctor for each and every sniffle.  

Thank goodness for our fantastic pediatrician who could see through his healthy façade and see that I wasn’t actually bat-shit crazy.  Turns out he does have something viral.  Of course, it’s viral.  It’s always viral.  The catch-all term for “we don’t know exactly what it is, what caused it, or how to treat it so we will prescribe rest and fluids.”

Great.  Fortunately, the trip alone cured you…at least until tonight, after office hours, when your fever will spike and whatever disease you picked up in the waiting room will rear it’s ugly head.  

At least you’re cute, you virus-harboring monkey.  Mommy loves you and your crust covered, snotty nose.

I. Am. Supermom.

For some people, vomit is like Kryptonite, effectively reducing grown men to tears and setting in motion a domino-like effect of mass destruction. For me, it is a catalyst. A super-power, if you will. Upon the first inkling of gastro-intestinal upset, my adrenaline starts pumping and every sense in my body becomes super-charged. I instantly have the power to jump backwards 20 feet in a single bound. I can carry another heaving human down the hall to the restroom with the velocity of a speeding bullet. I am able to withstand chemical burns and toxic levels of bleach inhalation in an effort to combat the enemy. And when disaster is averted, I am able to restore order and soothe my "dude in distress" (no effective male equivalent for damsel) with one embrace. I. Am. Supermom.