"Mommy, when I grow up, can I be a clown?"
Hmmm. Part of me wants to respond, "Absolutely not! Clowns are totally creepy! And besides, how do you plan to support us in our old age on a clown's salary?!?"
But instead I offer the obligatory "Sure. You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up."
"Mommy? I want to be a star!"
"Like a rock n' roll star?" I offer, because we've been talking a lot about rock n' roll lately.
"No, just a star! Then you can sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' to me!"
The doctor's office wants to know if we think Addie should be anesthetized for the CAT scan on Friday. "Do you think she can stay perfectly still for ten minutes?" they ask. Because if she's not, the CAT scan won't work right, and that's a gajillion dollars down the drain.
"She's two," I keep saying in response, because in my mind that answers the question. Of course she can't sit still for ten minutes, especially when being guided into a metal tube with bright lights and weird sounds. This is a kid who won't even let us put a band-aid on her knee without much thrashing about and baring of teeth. She had to get an x-ray of her lungs last year when she had croup, and it took two (male) attendants and Eric to hold her down. I watched from the hallway because I was pregnant with Nolie and couldn't be near the radiation, and it was like watching One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
But for some reason, the receptionist doesn't want to accept this--apparently, corralling an anaesthesiologist makes scheduling the whole thing a lot more difficult. "She's two," I insist. She shouldn't be having to go in that damn thing anyway, but since she does, you better knock her out for it, or else duct tape her in there.
While they're at it, they could shoot me some valium. I'm probably going to need it.
