Emergency Room?

My 2-year old went to the emergency room on Saturday. If I told you why it would spoil the surprise. The best thing I can do is just tell you the symptoms, the reaction of her mother and the story will unfold in a comedic fashion.

Peyton's tummy hurt. Of course she made this announcement 3/4 of the way through lunch which usually indicates that she is no longer wanting to eat so strange ailments appear. Today it was a tummy ache. Now, in her defense, she was not acting like her normal whiny self. My wife attributed it to constipation. I would agree with that as my daughters fiber content in her diet is about as abundant as rain is in the Mohave. My wife put her on the toilet, and she cried. She took her off the toilet, and she cried some more. She said she was tired, so my wife laid her down. Coming downstairs, my wife said, "she doesn't feel good." NooOoOoOoOooOooo, really? Lee Harvey acted alone? NooOOOooOOo....I didn't really buy it. I mean really, how odd is it that she cries at bedtime? It occurs on cue, just like Old Faithful.

A few minutes later, Peyton still crying, my wife went upstairs to check on her. I, of course, stayed in the kitchen, rolling my eyes at this circus act. This is common. This happens all the time. My wife goes up and gets twisted in every direction by a 2-year old. She forgets very easily who the parent is. Me, on the other hand, bring the fear of God with me. I release 3 plagues in her room with a request that her first born will die if she doesn't shut up with the whiny bullshit. Silence. What a sound. So, with Peyton in tow, my wife brings her downstairs and sits on the couch with her. "She feels hot." I walk over and feel her forehead. OUCH! 99.1 degrees. Elevated mostly from the blood in her face. "She's fine," I said. "But she was upstairs laying in bed in the fetal position, crying." As if this statement holds ANY meaning whatsoever. Picture this as you recall everything I have ever said about my daughter. A little girl, crying, laying in bed in the fetal position. Sounds normal to me. "So?" "I am taking her to the doctor." Doctor, on Saturday, New Year's Eve. Hmmmm...only thing open would be a HOSPITAL! Shit...fine....go. Here are your keys, nice knowing both of you. Sorry you got the plague.

A couple of hours later, I get a phone call. It's my wife. No tears, so the diagnosis was going to be OK. "What was wrong with her," I ask. "We have to go to the pharmacy and get some medicine." "OK, but what was the problem." "Oh she got to see the doctor, and the nurses were so nice. One of them saw tha." I had to interrupt. "Did they find the shovel that was buried in her cranium?" "It was just a bad diaper rash." What the fuck? DIAPER RASH???? This warranted a trip to the Emergency Room? To make a longer story shorter, the both came home with wrist bands, and print out of the emergency room diagnosis. Big and bold it stated, "DIAPER RASH" I told my wife to keep all of it, the bands, the paper and the bill (when it comes) so as to remember that my daughter, although cute, is full of shit.