What time is it?” my son, Cameron, hissed, a look of impatience stamped on his face.
“One minute since the last time you asked,” I replied, calmly thumbing through a magazine.
“The doctor will never see you, and, I’m hungry. I can’t believe I had to come along; I’m not a baby you know. ”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m Hungry. Are you related to I’m Tired or I’m Bored?”
“Not funny,” Cameron retorted, crossing his arms and slumping in the hard plastic chair.
In the ten minutes we’d been at the optometrist’s, I’d spent most of the time chasing my squealing toddler, Andy, around the office, rescuing expensive eyewear from his grimy hands while listening to Cameron “sing” what seemed like a hundred verses of the “teenager blues.” I was beginning to understand how my mother got her gray hair.
“This is the most boring place on earth,” Cameron complained, kicking at a pattern in the carpet.
“That’s not true. You can find excitement anywhere, just depends on how you look at things.” I remarked. I was unaware of how true that would soon be.
A short time later, a smiling nurse emerged in the lobby, pausing just long enough to call out my name before scampering like a rabbit back down the hallway. I wished, as I dragged my preschooler and sulky teen too the exam room, that businesses would have a service where children could be checked in like coats, leaving the parent to sit in the lobby in peace. I giggled to myself as I climbed in the padded exam chair, imagining my children sitting on a shelf, numbered doorknob type hangers dangling off their ears.
Seconds later, my silly fantasy was interrupted when the doctor, an older dapper man, entered the room. “Let’s have a look at those peepers,” he said jovially.
I don’t like people invading my “personal space,” and watched uncomfortably as he scooted closer on the stool until we were knee to knee. I’d brushed my teeth that morning, but--for his sake--wished I had a peppermint in my mouth.
“Don’t look down,” he commanded, putting the eye testing equipment in front of my eyes. “Tell me—is it better here, or better there?” the doctor asked softly, changing the lenses over each eye.
Horrified, I felt a hand sliding up my leg, caressing my knee. I’d read about patients being sexually assaulted by doctors, and doubted the validity of the stories, but this was real and happening to me! Angrily, I clenched and unclenched my hands. How dare he violate me—and in front of my children!
Just as I was about to give the doc a blow to the face they would feel in the next country, Cameron said sternly, "Andy, get over here and stop rubbing Mommy's knee." Had Cameron not intervened at that moment, the doctor would have had a broken nose, and I would have found myself sitting in a county jail cell, booked on assault charges.
I was right; you can find excitement anywhere, even at the eye doctor’s. My days are filled with occurrences similar, in some aspects, to this one. If “excitement is the spice of life,” then my existence—thanks to my children--is blessed and fully seasoned.
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