There are knock-down drag-out fights and fits of rage over getting the drops in Harper’s eyes.
The laundry is piling up, as I won’t allow anyone to reuse a towel after one use for fear of contamination.
The smell of Lysol is beginning to kill my brain cells.
“This is your brain. This is your brain on Lysol.”
How about another round of questions for our patient?
Me: Harper, it was another tough morning. You are driving me insane. I love you, but what’s the problem. Take. The. Drops.
Harper: I know I was driving you insane. And I will take the drops.
Me: Tell the good folks out there in blog land about the money that is going to exchange hands if I have to pay $40 to have your pediatrician to administer the drops. Go ahead. Tell ’em.
Harper: Well, what’s going to happen is that I am going to have to waste my $20 that I got from my birthday if I won’t let you put the drops in.
Me: That’s right. I have to pay $40 because the doctor wants to see you, now that the infection has spread to your other eye. BUT, if you won’t let me put the drops in first, and they have to do it, you can pay me half the amount of the appointment. Period. How does that sound?
Harper: That doesn’t sound too good.
Me: So, what’s your choice?
Harper: I’ll take the drops here so that they won’t have to use the cup thing over my eye to get them in.
Me: Smart move. Girl, I love you, but these past three days have been emotionally exhausting for me. You have really pushed me to my anger limit.
Harper: I have?! Oh . . . I knew that. Ok. Your turn.
Me: I’m done. I need to take a shower.
Harper: I know you need to take a shower.
Me: You sayin’ I smell?
Harper: NO!!!!!! You do not smell. I thought you needed to talk a shower so you can relax.
Me: Yes, that’s right.
The rest of the day includes: the trip to the doctor’s office, calling Keurig to find out why they sent me yet another Keurig Elite, ordering tickets for August: Osage County, looking through my new Chalean Extreme Program that just arrived, and catching up on the episode of Lost that I missed last night.
I realize Jesus had a pretty tough week this week . . . and I’m not saying that any of the frustrations in my life are even close to what He endured, but when one gets to the point where they have to physically sit on their child to administer medicine, it’s pretty clear that a low point has been reached.
This has been a Good Friday week for me.
Sunday can’t come soon enough.