I was gonna tell you all about my journey to meeting Spence and his blog but I think I’ll just let his art speak for itself. Meet Spence, the man, the comedian, the “old soul,” the “girls girl,” etc… (also to check out the blooper reel from this post)
Some days when I’m feeling low, and the world is cold, I can feel a glow just thinking of the search strings that bring people to my blog. Really, most searches are VERY boring and sometimes are very depressing. I get a lot of traffic from people wanting to know if they caused their child’s autism or how to make a big fluffy tutu. I wade through these to get to the real golden nuggets of searches that bring people to my blog. These are the best of this week:
Jenny McCarthy lacks self awareness
I got a bitch face because of my social anxiety
depressing stuff (why are you searching for that?!)
is one of the characters from the nick jr shows bubble guppies autistic ?
back of my head is not evenly shape.
i don’t have boogers anymore (ME NEITHER! It’s depressing)
cute bitchy sayings from mom to family (cute AND bitchy, please.)
google anything and have cancer
why does cheesecake give me anxiety
mostly true stuff lexi is hot (I DID NOT MAKE THAT UP! I’m pretty sure my husband keeps googling that to make me happy. Or maybe he’s really wondering if I’m hot.) (I actually just found out who it was. They are my most favorite person ever.)
does beyonce have hiv
why does pasta give me anxiety (why do so many people get anxiety from their food? Carbs are the cure!)
max and ruby porn (sorry, guys. Not here. Not yet.)
hairiest woman i’ve ever seen
my son is allergic to llamas (I’m sorry for your loss)
So, here’s a fun game. Try screwing with me through search strings. If you can find my blog by looking up “Hairiest woman eating pasta with great anxiety” or something of the like, I’ll see it in my stats. Go now. Best one that shows up gets a prize.
I got an email from the public relations guy SnugVest, a company that makes “weighted” vests for kids with autism. He wanted me to advertise for him and in return, he’d give me a cool 10% off their vests! Which doesn’t seem like much, really, but when I realized that it would save me $40 because the vests are $400.
I could not NOT respond. I mean, that’s almost enough to cover the tax on the vest! I had a lot of questions about this amazing opportunity, so I wrote him back
I’m very interested in your weighted vests, and this amazing opportunity to work with you.I have a bunch of questions. I see from your site that they are $400. Is that an introductory price? Are timeshare fees separate? Is the 10% discount you’re offering me good for only one vest?
I have some other questions with the product itself that I could not find on your website:
Is it weighted with gold or other precious metals?
Is it machine washable?
Can I plug my Ipod into it?
Does it have enough pockets for the entire Thomas the Train collection?
Does it come with it’s own papers or do I have to register it myself?
Is it fully housebroken?
How many cup holders does it have?
Is it heavy enough to keep a 200 pound “object” at the bottom of the ocean?
Is it made in America? I actually prefer the skilled hands of children.
Will they match my autistic child’s Louis Vuittons?
Are they pesticide free?
Would you consider them free range vests?
Can it be equipped with a gun holster?
Do you make these for cats? My cats love deep pressure.
Can you make it special so it snaps in the crotch like a onsie? I really hate it when my weighted apparel comes untucked.
Are they flame “r-word”-ant?
Will it stop bullets and help me fight crime?
Is it lined with unobtanium? Were any Na’vi hurt in order to get the unobtanium?
Will it eventually cure autism?
Does it come with a reverse osmosis filter for my urine?
Are they certified kosher?
Have any rappers endorsed them? You should get a rapper to endorse them. I buy stuff that rappers buy.
Are you a Republican? What do you think of the Tea Party?
If I inflated it with helium, could it be used as transportation? If so, would I need to register it with the Department of Transportation? If so, would you be willing to go with me to the DMV? Last time I went, I may or may not have sat in the corner and sobbed quietly for a couple of hours.
Have you ever worried that Garrison Keillor was your father? Do you have any idea what that’s like for me?
The vests seem a lot like the Pump Up Reebok’s of my youth. Do you think if I were able to find a pair of those my feet would feel less autistic?
Are the vests waterproof? Could I substitute the vest (fully inflated of course) for a life jacket on my child the next time we’re cruising on our yacht in the Hamptons?
Are they diamond studded?
I’m very excited about this amazing opportunity to spend $360 (well, $400, when you add tax, and then more after shipping) to advertise for you. Seems like a great use of my time and limited talents.
Kay, so there have been several people who have asked me if this picture happened:
I get it. It seemed just too perfect to be real. Also, I have a history of making crap up…hence the name of this blog. But for once in my life, this really happened just as I said. Here’s the sequence of photos (IN ORDER). I love her reaction to Lance shutting the door.
Every day I eat a Dole Light Caesar salad bag. The whole bag. They are delicious and low in calories and I can’t find the same great tasting dressing in anything than the tiny packs within the complete salad bag. Also, it has the tiny croutons, which are superior to big croutons. I’m trying to lose weight, so I’ve been substituting my regular lunch of hot pockets and pop tarts for salad. This salad makes me the least sad of all of the salads.
This isn’t a sponsored post. After the last sponsored post I wrote, it’s safe to say I will probably not being doing those anymore. But, Dole, hi, if you’re feeling like sending me fat cash, I won’t tell you ‘no’. Also, go ahead and stop reading now, you love me. Send me stuff.
Today I was doing my normal routine: watching Anderson Cooper 360 from last night (he’s the silver fox) while playing internet Spades (by ‘playing’ I mean mercilessly harassing a dude that was angry at me because my nil got set. I kept calling him ‘1800’ because that was his ranking. My ranking is 118. Out of 14,000. See how I just casually threw that in? I do it in everyday conversation as well.) and eating my salad. I don’t pay much attention to the salad as I eat it. Fortunately today, I wasn’t just shoving it straight into my mouth without looking nd noticed a gigantic bug in the bottom of my salad. It was the SAME DAMN COLOR OF THE ROMAINE. It was the size of a small child and hissed at me. Okay. It was the size of a dime and dead, but still, with the jeebs I’m still feeling, it might as well have been.
So I called Dole. They were experiencing high call volume. Probably because of all the bug salads. While I was waiting to talk to a representative, I asked Lance how I could make the conversation hilarious. He answered, “Uh, humor is a given in this situation. Also, I’m pretty sure the bug just winked at me.” After 16 minutes of being thoroughly indoctrinated by the recording (Did you know Dole onions are good for your colon?), I talked to Becky (I named her that. I couldn’t remember her name, but she seemed like a ‘Becky’. Very perky. Didn’t mind that I called her Becky.), the conversation went something like this:
Becky: “Thank y’all for calllin’ Dole today, sweetheart, what can I do for you today?”
Me: “Becky, hi, I just ate a bug salad and now I’m going to be fat forever!”
Becky: “I’m not sure I gave you my…”
Me: “Becky. The bug was huge. HUGE. I can’t trust salads anymore! Salads! What has this world come to?!
Becky: “I’m terribly sorry to hear about your bug salad, but we at Dole want you to know that you can trust salads. The world is still a good place. We want to make it up to you…”
Me: “That’s what they all say! TRUST ME! The trust has been broken and now I’m going back to my Hot Pocket Pop Tart lifestyle. I’m going to get diabetes! Like Wilford Brimley and me and that dude already have a history.”
Becky: “This is very rare. Rest assured that had you actually ate the bug, it was thoroughly washed and triple sanitized. It would not have hurt you.”
Me: “I’m already hurt, Becky, to my CORE! It wasn’t just the bug. It’s what the bug SYMBOLIZES!”
Becky: “I’m not sure what we’re talking about here…are you… are you going to be okay? Do you need me to call someone for you?”
Me: “I’m going to be fat forever. I tried switching from my all-processed diet and this is what I get. Bugs. Lesson learned, Becky. LESSON LEARNED!”
The conversation went on like this for quite some time. We reached an impasse. She promised to replace my bug salad with another potential delicious bug salad and I countered with an all expense paid trip to the Dole Plantation in Hawaii. She doubled the amount of coupons I will get and the manager said that if I stopped sobbing, he wouldn’t tell anyone about the “bizarre threats” and “weird foot thing” I had let slip during the tense holdout.
So, total win.
The people at Dole are good, I like them. They don’t know too much about me. They would never use that information to bring a shame on my family. Also, coupons!
And their products are fantastic for preventing colorectal cancer.
I’ve had this gift for you. The most amazing gift. I’ve spent days trying to figure out how to best wrap that gift in the form of words in a post. The truth is, no wrapping would ever do this gift justice. So, presented with out comment:
Today, by 11am, I had already put my head against my husband’s chest and whimpered, “I’m THAT Mom, Lance! I’m thhhhaaaaaaaat Mom.”
Yup. I’m the mom that schedules her son’s neurodevelopmental (it’s really a thing. Not a fun thing. But a thing) appointment at the same time as her daughter’s first “Rhythm, Movement, Dance and Song” group. Except, I didn’t actually know that was the name of the group or where it was exactly. And, apparently, I didn’t know what time it even started.
I’m that mom.
I woke early and desperately tried to get Casey to get ready. He laid naked on the ground for a full ten minutes playing with the cords to the blinds with his toes and harassing Peyton before I started just putting his clothes on for him. As soon as I started, he realized that he was no longer grounded from the Ipad (we’ve had to implement grounding for headlocks, no matter how light hearted they might seem), and took off to find it. This, while the other boys were hounding me for “sports apparel” (THEIR WORDS, even) for a spirit day at school. “Are you kidding me guys? ALL OF YOUR CLOTHES ARE SPORTS CLOTHES!” I finally tackled Casey down on the stairs and got him to cover up his privates. Another ten minutes of him not looking for the Ipad as I chased him around with the rest of his clothes later, he was ready to go. Lance came down to a scene where Abby is crying because she now thinks it’s cool to force me to feed her (aint nobody got time for that!), and I wasn’t and Carter and Peyton are BOTH screaming at each other about the computer because one of them wasn’t stuck breathless in the clamps of a headlock. I might rethink that policy. It brings the noise level WAY down. Casey was bemoaning the fact that I wouldn’t let him take all eight of his Angry Birds to the appointment. Lance tried to sneak up on me as I was angrily slapping peanut butter on bread and in his tiniest, most scared voice said, “Hey…how’s it going?…” then quickly backed away to avoid getting singed when I breathed fire.
No sooner had I gotten Lance and Casey in the car to go to the Children’s Hospital did Lance call me with, “Uhhhhhhhhhmmm, so…..where am I going?”
I finished getting the other boys their sports clothes for spirit whatever and sat down to get Abby to feed herself while I scrolled through my email. Peyton yells to me “Hey, can I get back on the computer? I’m asking because I don’t want you to be cranky with me. You’ve been very cranky this morning.” Ouch. There is a time in every mom’s life when she realizes that her child is right and needs to reevaluate her methods. If I had only been better prepared no one would have gotten yelled at this morning. Things could have gone so much smoother. Realizing this, I pulled Peyton into a warm embrace and apologized to him for my actions earlier and committed to be the kind of mother that doesn’t ever have to yell.
Just kidding. I did nothing of the sort. I’m not THAT Mom. I said, “You’re right Peyton, come closer so I can punch you in the skull.” For a minute, all was silent as we all pecked away at our various devices. Scary Mommy’s book dropped today. I love her and had to shout it to the world…on Facebook. While there, I totally forgot about the TIME and my boys almost missed the bus.
I’m that mom.
I’m not sure any of my boys had breakfast. I just realized that.
As soon as they were off, I ran upstairs to get myself ready for Abby’s toddler group. Realizing that I didn’t have the *time (*read: desire) to shower, I hastily washed my bangs (I’m a genius!) and pulled my hair into a ponytail. I ran downstairs to do the same with Abby’s hair as she sat looking at her bowl of cereal nobody was feeding her. She’s such a freaking princess. She also really hates having her head touched now. I go two ugly pigtails done and threw on her clothes. Realizing I can’t find ANY socks for me, I throw on the first two I grabbed out of our mismatched sock bin and RAN out of the door (just as Jill Smokler on the TV I forgot to turn off says on the Today Show, “we have contributors on Scary Mommy” and I’m all THAT’S ME! I’M FAMOUS! She mentioned ME! because I am, as you well know, a crazy person).
We get to the university and as I’m running into the building I see another mom running in with her daughter, too. I say, “Are you going to the group here? Do you know what group it is? I don’t even know where the hell I’m going.” And she says, “Yeaaaah, today is the last day of our signing group…I don’t think that’s the one you’re going to…” So I, late now, run up to the Early Intervention office and to a very surprised group of therapists and parents I breathlessly say, “Am I in the right place?” Abby’s seemingly always-nervous case worker comes out of her office. I put Abby down and put both hands on my knees as I pant. Two flights of stairs. I’m as out of shape as I look. I stand up straight and without realizing that there’s a small hoard of cute little kids with a variety of disabilities in the room I all too loudly say, “I swear to you, I’m losing my SHIT.” gasp.
Yeah, I’m that mom.
She takes me down to the music room where I’m relieved to find that I’m not late…in fact, we’re the only ones there besides the music teacher. Man! Am I glad that I didn’t blow this off! She would have had no one come! I introduce myself and fall in love with the very artsy lady that runs the group. She’s very direct. “Oh, I thought you were in our 10:30 group.”
I totally was! So now I wasn’t ten minutes late, but an hour and twenty minutes early. Fortunately she took pity on me and let us stay for her 9:30 class, that soon filled with moms and cute little toddlers. The class is a community class that we get to go to for fee because of Abby’s diagnosis. We’re so lucky, huh? The rest of those suckers have to PAY. The moms in the class were super cool, too. And guess what, NOT A SINGLE ONE OF THEM WAS WEARING PANTS. I mean, we weren’t naked, but we all were wearing sweats or yoga pants. My tribe.
I noticed all of them were taking off their shoes. And their kids shoes. It was a shoe free class. I…I had gotten my socks from the missing sock bin. They not only didn’t match, one was my son’s and one was mine. One was pink, one was stained and had grey toes and heels and “PEYTON” written on it. I couldn’t go barefoot either though, because it’s not summer yet and I have not yet taken the time to shave the hair off my toes. There is much hair.
A “Rhythm, Music, Dance and Song” group is just amazing amounts of silly with a toddler that doesn’t hear well and a mom that has no rhythm and is totally tone deaf. Add to it that the room was warm and we were moving A LOT. I was already a sweaty mess from running up and down the stairs (I kid you not) and having to meet new people (the social anxiety disorder makes me sweat…which makes me or anxious…which makes me sweat more…which makes me want to not meet new people ever because I become a gross filter-free sweat monster). I couldn’t take off my sweater because I didn’t want to be the smelly kid in class. Not that I actually would have smelled, they just would have thought that given the massive pit stains on my favorite grey shirt. (Why do I wear grey? That’s the dumbest thing ever)
I am the mom with ugly hair toes, mismatching socks, and pit stains. But my bangs were clean!
Casey’s appointment finished, and they met me at Casey’s school. I had forgotten to send the paperwork with Lance to the appointment, so now I would have to have the school fax it over. Because I’m that mom. Casey actually WENT TO SCHOOL (this is huge…he usually can’t go back if we’ve messed up his schedule at all…but I think going with Dad made it okay so now Lance is going to take him to all of his appointments he ever has). I take Casey to where his class and three others are practicing for their jazz concert. I walk up to his teacher and principal who are talking together just to make sure they know to call me if Casey decided that he couldn’t handle the upset. As I was talking to his super cute and fantastic teacher, Casey reached up and ran his hand over the sparkles on her sports shirt…right over her chest…oh goodness.
Having already said a four letter word in front of a group of children once already that morning, I decided to hightail it out of there. Which is where we began. Me burying my face in my husband’s chest as I said, “I’m THAT mom.” He patted my back and said, “Nah. You’re great. Also, Abby squished the Rice Krispy Treat you gave her in her hair.”
Of course she did. And of course, instead of going home to clean it out, we went out for lunch. Because I’m that mom.
I wish I could make some of my titles have rainbows over them. I’d do that with the title to this post. The rainbow brought to you by Wellbutrin.
So once again tonight, I said entirely too much on Facebook. If there was a drug that helped with my brain-mouth filter, I’d take it. I’d take it so hard.
But there isn’t, so I’m going to go ahead and over share with you. I’ll tell you about the drugs I DO take for the things I may or may not have. I self diagnose and then run it by my psychiatrist (who looks JUST like Apu from the Simpson’s. Five points to anyone who knows his last name off the top of your head. Apu’s last name, not my shrinks. I can’t ever remember it so I call him Dr. Apu. Because I’m super respectful.) I’m pretty good at diagnostics. I mean, what with watching five years of Dr. Phil and having a couple of years of psychology under my belt, I’m practically a doctor. I’m usually right, too. That, or Dr. Apu just isn’t paying attention.
It’s the former. Or the latter. Or whichever word means “the second thing I said.”
Who the hell is emailing me while I’m trying to write a post?!So many distractions, so little something something.
I have ADHD. This one I actually have been diagnosed with. There’s an app for that. Not joking. I take Adderall for it, but I really don’t love it. I take the lowest dose and I still have found myself grinding my teeth right out of my head. While I’m awake. But it helps. A LOT. I hadn’t fully realized how bad my ADHD was until I started taking the medicine. It’s when I first discovered that normal people FINISH THINGS. They change their sheets not because they are peed on, but because it’s something you do routinely. If someone or something interrupts a project, they go back to it. Blew my mind.
Anyways, I also have social anxiety disorder (I’m SAD) and awesome bouts of depression. The first thing (former?) is new. Not new as in it just started, but new as in figuring it out. I’ll write a post on that whole fantastic thing someday. Maybe. Long story short, it means that I don’t hate people, I just look like I do every time I’m around them.
But I don’t have bi-polar which is really REALLY a bummer. I mean, if I’m going to have depression anyways, it would be a lot cooler if it was paired with something like MANIA so I could at least have some awesome ups.
Alas, just bouts of depression. They are usually right around my period or after a super stressful time. Or during. Or at random. Or all of the time. To keep the blues and the hates away, I use Wellbutrin. I like the XR better than the SR (Xtended release and Someotherkind Release). It doesn’t work as well as Prozac for the blues, but it also doesn’t make me a STARVING lack-luster subservient libidoless doormat. Prozac makes me apathetic. It’s like pathetic, but with an ‘a.’ (Five points to whomever comes up with the best word for the “A” in “apathetic.“). It also has the VERY unfortunate side affect of loss of appetite (for the first month, then my body adjusts and I go back to eating entire plates of french fries).
Have you seen this blog? It’s the best depiction of depression that ever was or ever will be. Go there. And if you don’t get sidetracked, come back and read the rest of this post. Maybe even comment. If you do all of those things, you don’t have ADHD. I just saved you a doctors visit right there.
If you’re still sad after going to that site, you have depression. You’ve been diagnosed. You’re welcome.
For the random panic attack, my favorite friend in the fight is Ativan. I used to take Xanax, but it would put me to sleep for days. I still don’t even love the Ativan because I feel like it depresses my system out a little bit for the next day or so. And when you’re prone to The Funk, you have to be careful about that sort of thing.
So there you have it. Pharmaceuticals are the glue that is holding this mess together. I’m not even ashamed about it, either. This crap isn’t my fault any more than Wilford Brimley’s diabeetus is his. Wait, is it?
You know, this post might sound complainy. But it’s not. I dig when things go wrong because they make life and subsequently this blog entirely more enjoyable.
We went on a cruise to the Bahamas. I’ll get to that. Or not. We’ll see. The last night of our cruise I got seasick for the first time. It. was. awful. I spent the better part of the night trying to find the best way to approach the toilet (sitting on it, head in bucket). Still feeling a little rough the next day, we boarded our JetBlue flight back home. I found myself stuck between my husband and a very large, very angry and very flatulent Russian.
I made him angry.
We sat down and I got all excited and said, “Hey! You’re the dude who won the belly flop contest on the cruise!”
See kids? Social Anxiety Disorder serves a purpose! I usually wouldn’t have said ANYTHING, but I felt SO IN LOVE with everyone on the cruise, that I immediately thought we were friends. It wasn’t like I was going on nothing. The dude that won was 1. Russian, 2. from Virginia, and 3. looked JUST like the guy sitting next to me. I could have sworn we rode the same shuttle back from the cruise and everything.
I’m not responsible for his flatulence. I don’t think.
So about twenty minutes into the flight, I smell something. I was hoping that it was just a present left to us by the angry flight attendant dude that looked about five seconds away from becoming the next FolkHero in the same vein as that other flight attendant dude that blah blah blah. You know where I’m going with this, right? Anyways, no folk status, though he was also unpleasant.
It kept happening. With increasing intensity. It was horrific. Finally, I turned and shoved my face in my husband’s armpit. So. Much. Better. At the point I where I was sure I couldn’t survive any longer, the airplane goes to land. Just as we start to land…we see the ground…yay ground!…the pilot decides abort the landing and pulls the plane back into the sky. Stomach lurch. For everyone. If that’s not bad enough he didn’t tell us WHY. This, after JUST flying over the 9/11 memorial at the Pentagon. Lance started to squeeze my hand.
I’m surprised that the Angry Russian didn’t just go ahead and crap his pants at this point. I almost did.
The captains voice came over the speakers, “uuuuhhhhhhh, yeaaaahhhhhhh sooooo (deep breath) we had a warning light come on sssshhhhhhhhhhhh so we had to abort…not a danger light…soooooo that’s gooooooood.” Wait, what? Why not JUST LAND THE PLANE?! A light comes on and you decide to find out what it is HIGHER UP IN THE AIR?!
We circled down to Dulles International Airport. He decided not to land there, either. Instead, he kept the airplane from hell bouncing nicely in the clouds until the nausia was more than most could take.The girl in the next row over puked. The plane was climbing at this point so all of the throw up slid down the seats to the rows behind her.
20 minutes later. We land. At this point I wanted to cheer, but I was much too afraid that the pilot was going to go, “ugggghhhhhhhhmmm, so….psych?”
The wait to get off JetBlue flight AngryRussianPuke seemed like an eternity. I accidentally sat on the Angry Flatulent Russian’s bags on accident. He got even redder. I got off the plane as fast as I could and we staggered to the first bathroom we could find. There was, of course, a long line out the ladies room. I watched as a three year old stood in front of an empty stall and yelled at her mother about not wanting to go pee. Her mother in a sing-songy voice tried to coax her into using the potty from the stall next to the empty one. FIVE MINUTES later, I decide to find another bathroom before I chanced a felony assault charge. Nut up, folks.
The next bathroom I found was crowded and when it was finally my turn I ran in and found myself standing in a puddle of pee. A gigantic puddle of pee. Holding my own hair back, and standing on an island in Pee Lake, I puked all over the toilet.
This is Peyton. ALL OF THE TIME. He’s always doing something like this. Always. The saddest part about this video is this is the remake of the one I thought I was filming when he wasn’t looking. You know, the one where I thought it was recording but it wasn’t? Sad. It’s still pretty good though.
I’m pretty sure my husband is terribly sick of me answering all of his questions with, “Because I have ISSUES!” I do it in different voices, to mix it up a little, but it’s not helping.
“Lexi, why are there three almost-empty bottles of Diet Sprite in the refrigerator?” Because I have issues! (said in my Southern Bell voice)
“Lexi, why are you on the roof?” Because I have ISSUES! (while I hold up a javelin)
“How come you haven’t left the bathroom in 2 hours?” Because I have issues! (I growl as I slide four used issues of People under the door at him. I actually waited forty minutes to use that pun.)
“Why did you force the Chick Fil A lady to hug and jump with you?” Because I have issues! I also made her embrace me! We EMBRACED.
“Why is Heidi on the roof?” ….you get it the idea.
You would think that my saying this over and over and over again would mess with my already fragile self-esteem (that’s a lie. It’s not fragile at all. It’s grossly over-exaggerated given the amount of time I spend on how I look, eat, and smell). But it’s done quite the opposite. It’s EMPOWERED me. Try it out next time your husband asks why you put your cat army in the freezer or only speak in Spongebob quotes.
You’ll also win every fight. And that’s awesome all on it’s own.
We’ve had a stomach bug, strep and the flu go through our house this month. Abby got a little bit of the stomach bug, but other than that, she was spared. That was a miracle.
By last Friday, everyone in the house had seen the doctor that week besides Carter. He was feeling left out so he developed this fantastic rash all over his arms and legs. I consulted my nurse friend and she said that I had better take him in. We got a late appointment at our pediatrician’s office, but not with our regular doctor. And, as is pretty normal with last minute appointments, we had to wait a while to see the doctor. We got silly. We weighed our heads. We laughed. It was during this silliness that the doctor walked in.
The doctor was a little person. And not a little person in that his trunk was average sized and he had smaller arms and legs, he was just little ALL over. (This is probably not very politically correct. I really mean no offense. I just don’t know how to describe it) Had he stood behind Carter, you wouldnt’ be able to see him. I scooted closer to Carter where I could easily kick him if he said something dumb. Kids his age like to point out the obvious. I’m sure the guy get’s it all of the time. Carter kept looking at him like he really wanted to say something. I waited. Prepared. But he didn’t. The doctor was fantastic (in fact, we’re switching TO him from our other doctor because I liked him so much). Carter had an allergic type rash on his arms and poison ivy on his legs. No big deal. Sent us on our way.
In the car ride home I told Carter that I was proud of him for not commenting on the guy’s size. I said, “I could really tell that you wanted to say something to him…but I’m proud of you for not.” And Carter says,
“I did want to say something to him. I wanted to tell him that he had really soft hands.”