Currently This

Convo between my middle girl and I while we waited in the doc's office this afternoon . . .

Me: You want some of my Zinger?

Middle Girl: Ok, Mommy. Thanks!

Me: Zingers are the best. The raspberry ones. The chocolate ones are just chocolate cake wannabees. You only eat them when you can't get to chocolate cake.

MG: Mm hmm.

Me: You think that chocolate Zingers are happy with their fate? You think they wake up every day, happy to be chocolate Zingers or do you think they aspire to be chocolate cake?

MG: What?

Me: Chocolate Zingers. Do you think they are satisfied with their lot in life?

MG: I don't like chocolate Zingers.

Me: That's the point. No one likes chocolate Zingers. They only eat them when they can't get to chocolate cake.

MG: I don't know . . .

Me: Would you rather have a chocolate Zinger or a piece of moist chocolate cake with fluffy frosting?

MG: Cake.

Me: There you go. Everyone would rather have cake and the only reason chocolate Zingers are still on the market is their portability. You have a chocolate Zinger when you can't carry around a piece of chocolate cake. My question is, do you think this is ok with chocolate Zingers? Do you think they are pleased just to be chocolate Zingers, with all that implies, or do you think they long to be chocolate cake, their little noses forever pressed to the window of True Bakery Goodness, looking in and wishing they too could be cake?

MG: I think you have issues.

Me: I was just wondering.

My daughter notices something across the wall from her.

MG: Oh My God.

Me: What??

MG: I was just looking at the box that says 'used needles'. I hate needles.

Me: Are you planning to run face first into the box? Are you planning to jump up and down in the box in your bare feet?

MG: They did that in 'Saw'!

Me: They ran head first into a box of used needles?

MG: No, they were poisoned and the antidote was at the bottom of a bunch of used needles they had to dig through to get out.

Me: 'Saw' is a kind of glorified 'Fear Factor', isn't it?

MG: Yeah, but you get to live at the end if you win.

ME: You get to live at the end of 'Fear Factor' too, and if you win you get fifty thousand dollars. Then again, if you live long enough, you're sure to earn fifty thousand dollars at some point in your life, so I guess as prizes go, 'Saw' wins.

Then we went on to say something about babies and needles I don't quite remember and probably shouldn't repeat if I did.

I began to wonder whether or not it would be worth the trouble to tear off the informational posters they have in the doctor's office, take them home, scan and then subtly alter them. I envisioned posters about allergies informing kids that asthma is always fatal. Maybe I could replace the little Dymo-labels on the paper trays that said "Girls - birth to 11" and "Boys - 12 to 18" , the ones that hold blank growth charts, and re-label them "Naked Pics Girls: birth to 11" or maybe just redo the charts so that a sixteen year old girl who weighs 130 would fall squarely into the normal growth chart ranges.

That's when my daughter told me I wasn't allowed to leave the house anymore.

Then her doc showed up and, in the course of their convo, I was again reminded that my baby is eighteen and can, if she wants, see the doctor on her own without me in the room. I always offer her that option anyway, but that's the real 'Fear Factor' for me, the time when I have to trust that my kid can advocate for herself and won't need me there to bully the docs into treating her well. I won't have all the info anymore, won't know all the details and won't be able to keep my eye out as easily for the symptoms that, if missed, will surely be the end of her and which were only missed because I wasn't in the room to hear everything.

I don't suppose I get fifty thousand for that, though.