PHEW

The foot is not broken.  I can relinquish the title of Worst Mother Ever back to Joan Crawford or Courtney Love or whoever named their kid Carburetor this week.

The doctor's office took forever.  I liked it better when my doctor first started practicing, and he had 11 patients, and I could call and get an appointment for whenever I wanted.  Sometimes he would call me and offer me appointments, just so he'd have something to do.  Then Dopey Amy referred everyone in town to him, and now suddenly (7 years later) Dr. Popular is all busy and impossible to see.  He still listens and does a wonderful job, but he's obviously stretched much thinner than he used to be. Waiting room waits are longer, and the time between when I call and when I can get in has grown.

Anywho, between the yearly physical (which is what the appointment was for) and the foot, and the X-rays, and the waiting for the X-rays, and so on, we were there about 2 hours.  It's a good thing that Grandpa Bob took Claire, because keeping Hop Along and Jack occupied was enough to exhaust me, and Claire would have been bored to tears.  Plus, the poor kid was just there with me yesterday.  Same room and everything.  Mommy can only blow up so many gloves into balloon chickens.

After the X-rays had been taken, but before Dr. Popular came back to talk to us about the results, MG asked what was taking so long.  I said, "Well, the doctor has to look at all the pictures of your foot, and there are lots and lots of bones in there, and he has to look at each one to make sure it's not broken.  Here, let me show you," and I pulled up an image of a foot X-ray on my phone.  We were looking at it when Dr. Popular came back, and he thought that I'd somehow managed to get Mary Grace's X-ray on my phone!  I should have let him think that I was that good, but I came clean and told him it was just some random internet foot.

How on earth did our mothers keep us busy at the doctor's office without tech?

Oh, the other thing about the visit that was funny - Mary Grace made me push her in the wheelchair.  You should have seen the looks we got from other patients.  But she was hurt, and that's what it's there for, right?  How the heck else was I supposed to get her, Jack, and all our crap around the building?

I need to stop caring what other people think.  From now on, when I find myself thinking, "Oh my gosh, those people are judging me!!" I'm going to imagine that they're actual judges with scorecards in their hands.  Then I'll do my very triple lutz, and go on.