Skip to main content

And then there is the caretaker

The day of Scott's surgery, our 5 year old was all full of questions, opinions, and words I didn't think he knew (not swear words, be assured.  He knows those, thankyouverymuch).  He chattered away and insisted that Scott play Legos with him before he went to kindergarten and Scott went to the hospital.  Apparently, they had all kinds of good talkin' going on because I got a full report as I helped him into his jacket.

"Dad's going to the hospital and the doctor is going to give him medicine so he will go to sleep and then the doctor is going to cut into his foot and take out the ball that's hurting him when he walks and then he's going to sew him up so he doesn't bleed anymore.  Then dad's going to wake up in a different room and be a dummyhead."

"He means bobblehead," my husband clarified.

Right.

True to his dad's predictions, that's exactly what happened.  Of course, Jaxon was all about making his dad feel better.  First of all, he tried to help him get to the bathroom being dizzy and all.  Since Jaxon is a few inches short of elf-size and Scott is just a hair taller than a giant, this was a good show until Scott insisted that I lend a shoulder.

The little elf talked all the way home from the hospital and all the way into the house, step-by-painstaking-slow-step.  He brought his dad some medicine and a drink of water.  He turned on the fan to help him sleep better.  He offered him his best Legos.  When he ran out of his helpful ideas, he sat and thought about what makes him feel better.  The cat.  He cornered the calico feline and carried her (another fun show to watch since he is, after all, the size of an elf) to his father, presenting her like a sacred relic.  The dad was a little less than enthusiastic and may have even been short with him.  Jaxon let the cat go, looked at Scott and announced that Scott needed a prayer.  Go ahead and say it, Dad.

Nothing like a dose of sweet 5 year old to keep even the giant humble.

Comments

  1. Such a sweet boy! You simply must keep that one.

    ReplyDelete
  2. That's great! BTW, what book were you wanting to tell me about?

    ReplyDelete
  3. Haha, I love your posts. It's a love/hate relationship with my kids when I'm sick. I LOVE the homemade cards, now please leave me alone and turn out the light!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Am I terrible for laughing? I love this! How unbearably sweet is your little elf! Many wishes for a speedy Giant recovery!

    ReplyDelete
  5. I would say that a prayer is much better than a man-lap full of irritated calico claws...

    ReplyDelete
  6. Awe.Some!

    What? He didn't want to cuddle the cat? Sheesh

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Braces!

13 year old got braces today! She also had a little helper on her.

Christmas Gifts

Jill is the slice of home baked pie you long for. Her dad was a farmer. His dad was a farmer. On a hot summer day Jill would call me up to go floating down the canal or ride the slick rocks with the stream into a barely thawed pool of water. She's also the girl I called one day when I was bored and offered to drive two hours and try out this new thing called "Bungee Jumping." We did although I can't remember why . The first year after my college graduation I found myself particularly low on pride.  First of all, I was a college graduate working as a sales clerk.  Too late I discovered that a bachelors degree in sociology is equal to a high school diploma and, in some cases, a G.E.D. and got you hired at JC Penney trying to upsale with a colorful scarf.  On top of it, I'd been dumped.  It wasn't that he was the love of my life.  In fact, it was quite the opposite.  He started planning the wedding aloud and I freaked out, pointing out that we'd only bee...

They Call Me Grace

I was nearly 8 years old when my baby sister was born. This was quite fortunate since I was well adept at reading. I was tired of my name. Nancy. So plain. The Sunday comics included a comic strip called Nancy. She hung out with her stupid little boyfriend named Russell, was very boring and cried all the time. Why would parents who love their child name her such a boring name? I assumed they had run out of originality by this point. I was, after all, their third child. There was Mike, then Suzy, after me they had Joey (short for Joanne) and finally Jene Marie. The "j" a soft French slur. It was fitting. We had a French surname. But clearly Jene Marie was their crowning glory. Do I hate for taking all the love from my parents and hogging it for herself? Of course not. She's my sister. She's my baby sister. But if I happen to feel the need to speak to her when she's at work, I always ask for her by using both names; Jene Marie (with the schwa). I don't want her...