Is it not alarming that a doctor calls his business a "practice"?

So, in my continuing quest to document my life and fill this wee site with trivialities, I forgot to talk about our visit to urgent care last week. First, I should mention that when either of the children get a mere scratch, my husband turns into his Indian mother (fortunately, he does not have an obsession with ditches. So, there is at least that. I suppose. Ahem.) Anyway, Arun got a splinter/thorn in his foot because we are totally lowbrow around these here parts and let our kids go barefoot. You know, the economy and such. Trying to save their shoes for church on Sunday even though we do not go to church, which really is working out for us, come to think to think of it. Anyway. X began agonizing over the damned splinter/thorn almost to the point of rending his garments so he took Arun to a non-children's urgent care whereupon they declared that it needed to be soaked. Which our hyper-active 3 year old BOY was totally down with. I mean, what 3 year old BOY would not simply adore sitting around with his foot in a tub of warm, soapy water??

So, after another few days of hearing X's anguish. I packed a picnic lunch, tucked the kids into their carseats and headed over to Children's Mercy urgent care. I just needed to be done with it already, even though I knew damned well Arun's body would eventually take care of it (as the surgeon himself confirmed.)

Folks, I really fear that Team Chaos is destined to a life of hypochondria because they seem to really dig the whole "medical drama" routine (Point of Reference #1 and Point of Reference #2) Seriously. They had a blast - new people! lights! equipment! new toys! We were there for 3 hours in which time we consumed our picnic lunch, grew tired of our toys and whereupon, the nurses fetched orange slushies, cookies and even more toys. All the while completely fawning over the kids, which swelled their little egos to the point where I thought I was going to be required to research talent agents and publicists while drawing up restraining orders on the paparazzi.

Good grief.

It is no wonder that Anjali screeched like a banshee when we left - "NO! NO! I hafta stay! I HAFTA STAY!" Folks, she wailed louder than Arun did when the surgeon cut the damned splinter/thorn out of his foot.

Oh and I totally Twittered (Tweetled?) the affair. Because I am that sort of mommyblogger. The very worst kind, apparently. (Hey, you in the back! I can totally hear you judging.)

Maybe I should reconsider that whole shoe vs. church thing.