A couple of you have been over here cramming the last few days, if the number of posts in a row that you’ve “liked” is any indication, so I almost feel obligated to give that Jenn story quiz I quipped about last week. I think that might be a little too self-absorbed even for me, though, and also it makes me feel obligated to give prizes, and the only people I’m sure would play along already possess the only prize I currently have to offer. So instead I’m going to tell you what it’s like when TWCN (The World’s Cutest Niece) and Smiley-Guy play doctor. (P.S. The short answer is: adorable and innocent.)
Mom and Dad have the same Fisher-Price® doctor’s kit that Grandma and Grandpa M had when TheBro and I were little and came over to play. It looks pretty grungy now for all the use it’s had, but that doesn’t stop TWCN from playing with it or Smiley Guy from putting all the pieces in his mouth even though he’s a precocious three and a half and should know better.
TWCN holds up the eye chart with all of the letters of the alphabet in order in decreasing size. I say all the letters correctly, at the pace at which she moves her fingers. She is in Kindergarten now so she knows her alphabet literally frontwards and backwards. “Pretend,” she says. “When you get to the little ones, say some wrong ones.” We go through the chart again. I pretend to see the letters between P and Z with some trouble. “No!” TWCN says every time I mess one up, as if I’m the most hilariously dimwitted auntie in the world. She keeps saying, “No,” until I get it right. Then she waves the little blue wand for looking in eyes and ears and pokes it right at my eyelids. “The eyes are my favourite part,” she says cheerfully, while I wonder if I should be frightened.
She has some pieces of modular plastic screwdriver from Fisher-Price’s tool kit, too. “These are for cuts,” she says.
“Cuts?” I ask in alarm. “I don’t want any cuts!”
“No!” she laughs, as if I have just called a W a T. “They’re for cuts. Let’s see if you have any cuts.” Apparently they are applicators to put disinfectant on my pre-existent imaginary cuts. I feel much better.
Smiley-Guy is meanwhile jumping around with the plastic yellow and red syringe and trying to give me shots in the arm while holding it in his mouth. TWCN is taking my temperature and turning the little dial at the end of the giant thermometer so it reads as high as possible. I pretend to be shocked and dismayed by the high fever I am, apparently, running. TWCN lies me down on the mattress she’s been sleeping on all week and Smiley Guy gives me his Blankie.
Both of them get on the rocking horse that Grandpa G made for me when I was T-TAC’s age; because of my scandalously high fever, they are rushing me to the hospital via horsey-cart. TWCN untethers the horse. “Okay, horsey,” she says. “You may go back to your desk now and do your homework.” Then she falls down on the floor laughing hysterically at her own silliness.
At the “hospital,” Smiley Guy starts loudly singing a song he has just made up, using the medicine bottle as a microphone. Something about “The doctor’s office is what we did, the doctor’s office is what we need” over and over again. TWCN begins singing along. It is unclear if they are both singing the same words or not. Or the same tune. Then they tap the little hammer against my knees to test my reflexes, and I kick my feet, cooperatively. TWCN takes my temperature again and Smiley Guy reprises the blue eye-checking wand, approximately as alarmingly as his sister did.
My temperature is still high, but not as bad, although apparently I have a blood pressure of “1.” Somehow, I am still capable of reading them a story.