The Post Op

There are a couple of things that can categorically cause divorce. There's the "obvious" stupid (and always quite regrettable) behavior, choosing a paint color for your family room, assembling a grill together, and your child's mole removal. Today, our son had his wee, cute mole removed from his tender face, wherein pandemonium ensued.

I began my day by making a pot of coffee, laying out Sam's "surgery" clothes, throwing his pre-purchased pain medication and my journal in my bag, and then attempting to wake him and his dad. Lord, have mercy - those boys love to sleep.

We made it to the hospital with time to spare (really, this is something), tricked Sam into believing he was on some secret mission where he had to count backwards into a spy mask, and watched him being led into the surgical abyss by a nurse named Jo (who was plenty tan).

He came out wearing colors that fly, eating popsicles and asking when we could "get the heck out of there." He's awesome, mature and, might I add, adorable. If I had a nickel for every nurse who said, "He's so cuuuuute," I'd have 35 cents.

Post Op: (I'm using medical terms here)

* A trip to Bob Evans. Pancakes and sausage gravy, anything you want, sweet boy.
*Puke in the back of my Volvo.
*Daddy saying, "I think I'll go into the office for a while."
*Mommy saying, "Oh, yeah, that's a good idea."
*Sam acting like a crazy person coming off of a bad cocaine habit, mistreating the dog.
*Sam sent to his room for a nap.
*Sam ripping off his surgical tape that was to remain on his stitch for 3-4 weeks.
*Mommy's little freak-out.
*Daddy's workday.
*A trip to CVS.

Remember that television commercial where the sweet host and hostess stand inside the CVS pharmacy folding their arms and smiling as yet another satisfied customer walks home (because there's a CVS on every corner)? Well, that is complete bullshit.

When I arrived at CVS (any old CVS), I stood calmly by the sign that read "Consultation." A couple of pharmacists looked down at me with a look that clearly stated, "Shit, that lady wants a consultation."

I quickly realized that the consultation line was for customers who'd graduated with high honors from the drop-off/pick-up line, and that, in essence, I was a nuisance.

A throaty voice asked, "Do you have a question?"

I replied, "Um, yes, in fact, I do have a question," followed by the details of my terrible horrible no good very bad day (omitting the pot of coffee).

Frog lady climbed off her lily pad into aisle 7A, where you can buy surgical tape, although she had NO IDEA what kind of tape I needed (one that applies directly to wounds...no, no...it seems quite simple), and so I ended my afternoon with bandage dots, some Bacitracin and a jug of hydrogen peroxide.

And, unlike some married couples who might end their day with the wife peevishly answering questions with one-word responses--simultaneously and aggressively brushing her teeth--while her worn-out husband opts to watch Simpson reruns, we made it through unscathed.

All is well, and we hope for Sam's unfaltering recovery.