Poetry Friday: The Word is "Patient"

Uh yesh, it's Saturday. I know, I missed Poetry Friday, but listen, it wasn't my fault...the time-space continuum got ripped once we took the kids to the grandparents for the long weekend, and it was just Sergei and me together with NO kids and NO screaming to play on the computer and NO one saying "Stop it! I'll tell mom!"

My brain isn't used to that kind of calm.

So far I haven't cooked a meal since Wednesday. I can watch whatever I want on television. I can take an uninterrupted nap. I can bonk Sergei in the shower and not have to worry about little hands knocking on the door having to pee 'reeeeeally bad!'

Don't get me wrong, I love my kids, and I do miss them, but....

There's something to be said for delicious alone time with your sig other.

Oh yesh, I'm supposed to be doing Poetry Friday.

Free-write time. True story, names have been changed so as to be untraceable.

Have a lovely naked-ice-cream-party-filled-weekend y'all!


Five Minute Free-Write: "Patient"
Everyone called him "Dr. B", because his last name was so long and difficult for kids to pronounce and adults to spell. He was ancient when my parents were young, and more like a walking statue when I was a kid. He had white hair and a kind face, exceedingly tall, with a voice like chocolate...dark and soothing. The town was his patient. He cared for everyone, even when he was 92 and senile.

His waiting room smelled strongly of antiseptic, moreso than any other doctor's office I've been in since. They must have mopped the floor with the stuff. Stiff-backed chairs lined the room and in the center sat a small table and chairs for the children, loaded with books, puzzles, and a set of blocks.

I hated going there just the same.

When you're little, when you're sick, when your head feels too big for your body and you can't stop throwing up and when your mom has that terrified look on her face because she knows you're really sick, the last thing you want to do is sit in a smelly room with old people looking at you and smiling, and watch the all-white nurse peek her head in the room every 20 minutes and call a name that's not yours, while your younger siblings hog your mom's lap and all you want to do is roll up in a blanket and fall asleep.

Dr. B's solution to most things was a shot.

I hated Dr. B for that.

My arm, my butt, wherever he thought it would do the most good.

I passed out almost every time.

Except for one time.

Right before the shot, my mom told Dr. B she wanted to talk to him afterward, and she got sort of pale. That got me scared. I didn't pass out, and I didn't stay in the curtained room when she asked me to, but followed her to the adjoining room where I heard her ask Dr. B to give her a test, and she cried a little, and I got worried she would die.

She peed in a cup. We left. Mom smiled at me. Dr. B put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it, re-assuring me everything was okay.

I got better, of course, the innoculation in my bottom did the trick.

And 8 months later, I had a new baby sister.