Aren’t kids awesome?

Today at work I did a foot x-ray on a woman who had injured herself while chasing her toddler down the stairs. She had the look of someone who hasn’t gotten much sleep, and was very self conscious about having me touch her feet during the exam—apologizing in advance for any dirt or odor. I told her not to worry about it and did my best to put her at her ease in a manner á la Dad: telling her all my best stinky feet stories and jokes. (I even got her to crack a smile as I walked her back to her room.)

As I opened the door to exam room 2, I saw the aforementioned toddler and an older boy of eight busily tugging on the paper that covers the padded examination table—happily creating a tangled heap of the crackly paper—almost as if it were a giant roll of toilet paper. The eight year old had the sense to quickly drop his end of the paper and point to the toddler saying, “Mom, can you believe what Ashton did?! I was trying to stop him when you came in.” The woman flushed and attempted to apologize while executing a rather unsuccessful swoop towards the offending heap of paper.

I bit my cheek to keep from laughing and plucked the squealing toddler (who was now waist deep in paper) out of the mess and handed him to his mother after guiding her to a seat. I gave her a wink and said, “Don’t worry. Kids happen.” The eight year old, who I discovered was named Jeremy, helped me gather the paper into a big wad while wearing an expression calculated to impress me with saint-like longsuffering for the ruckus his brother had caused. Ashton didn’t seem to mind taking the blame as long as we kept on making all those delightful scrunching noises…His mother just sighed and rolled her eyes as the suddenly virtuous Jeremy quietly took a seat next to her.

I left the room and stuffed the enormous wad into the break room garbage can and went back to my cubby to finish her paperwork. (And I mean cubby…it’s a converted supply closet. The fact that it is now door-less is meant to make those of us who use it less claustrophobic.) Twenty minutes went by and I had briefly forgotten about the woman and her mischievous boys, until I heard the soft thump that is the tell-tale sign of an ankle boot or cast.

Sure enough, the exhausted mother was slowly thumping her way down the hall in the thick black plastic boot while trying to maintain a firm hold on the curious toddler. Meanwhile, Jeremy trudged alongside her, wearing the sullen pout of a child who has just received a “talking to.” I couldn’t help listening to their conversation as they passed my cubby. Jeremy was anxious to know all about his mom’s new shoe, while still trying to appear aloof…

“Mom, do you really have to wear that thing all the time?”

Sigh. “Yes, sweetie.”

“Well, for how long?”

“A month. But we’ll come back to the doctor’s in a few weeks to see how my foot is doing.”

“A whole month?!” The indifferent tone of voice slipped a bit on that last remark, and there was a moment of awed silence as Jeremy contemplated such a vast ocean of time…then, “But mom, that means you’ll have this huge ugly foot for a long time!”

She stopped walking for a moment to look at her son and say, “I know, Jer. Thanks for pointing it out.”

This break in movement lasted long enough for the toddler to smack his half-sucked DumDum against her boot experimentally—no doubt testing the sound quality of a potential new drum. Apparently it met with his approval because he beamed a two-tooth smile that leaked a wave a drool down his chin and into the cracks of her boot, and said, “Have it, mama?” She glanced down at the sticky plastic encasing her leg and then at the sweet baby smiling up at her.

I was waiting to see if she suddenly snapped into tears or rage, but all she did was regain her grasp on the baby, take hold of Jeremy’s hand, sigh and say, “Yes. Mommy’s had it. And when we get home, it’s daddy’s turn.”

I watched her thump her way down the hall to the parking lot with as much dignity as a bedraggled woman toting two kids while wearing a squelchy ankle brace can muster.I can only hope that it was a short drive home…

And I really hope there was a nap waiting for her when she got there.