The Doctor Won’t See You, Dad
My 5-year-old daughter came down with strep last week. It was pretty obvious what the problem was: She had a sore, red throat, a stomachache (which later turned into vomiting), and a fever in the 102-degree range, yet she wasn’t coughing and had no ear pain. My wife and I both diagnosed her without seeing a pediatrician, and we were right. Trouble is, since neither of us has a medical degree we weren’t able to write a prescription for amoxicillin (aka “the pink stuff,” as Isabella calls it). We had to get an appointment. And since all the evening slots were taken, that meant one of us had to leave work early. Guess which one of us went? Right, it wasn’t me. Now, I go to my share of wellness visits, and I’ve been known to accompany both of my kids solo to the doc, which in some circles makes me an anomaly, in some circles a hero, and in some circles (including around here) simply a parent doing his job. But the point here is that we’re both beyond busy at our jobs and we’re exactly the same distance from home. Yet my wife ended up escorting Isabella (I’ve included a happy picture of our princess, since she’s all better and even got to be “Star of the Week” at kindergarten) instead of me. Why? Maybe it’s because even though we (I) like to think of us as 50-50 parents, it’s probably more like 55-45. Or perhaps it’s because it’s still more acceptable for a mom to leave the office than a dad when a child gets sick. Whatever the case, I decided that if it’s at all possible I should be the one to dash from my cube next time—not that you need to get sick again anytime soon, honey!
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