Earache v 2.2...Isobel is not allowed to touch the closet, ever...

When she was much younger, Isobel was like many children and put things in her mouth. (is it a food/not food kind of thing like sharks do with surfers?) If you're lucky, you catch everything in time. If you're not so lucky, you hope that what goes down will come out and that it didn't have sharp edges.
Daddy: "What's that in your mouth?"
Isobel: "Nothing."
Daddy: "What was that in your mouth?"
Isobel: "A stone." (She was starting to tear up quickly)
Daddy: "What!?! A stone, what stone?!?!"
Isobel: "This." (she showed me a small oval piece of glass with very round edges. The kind of thing one might put in a vase to hold dried flowers in place. Glass yes but if she was determined to swallow something, this was the perfect thing.)
Daddy: "Did it go all the way down?"
Isobel: (nodding her head as gigantic tears rolled down her cheeks) "Yes"
Daddy: "Well that's good to know and with a little luck, in a day or so you can tell your friends you crapped a marble."
Isobel: "Really?"
Daddy: "Uh-huh."
Isobel: "Cool..."


A week into her recovery from the crippling earache and all seemed to be on the mend... for at least a couple of days anyway. By Saturday afternoon, we had scrapped her plans of going to a birthday party and I was loading her into the car and heading for the after hours doctor.
Her mood was better but I could hear her whispering to herself on the way "this really hurts my ear.' It was funny and heartbreaking all at once. And when she declined the opportunity to keep playing my Ipod, I knew that it was really bugging her.
Mrs. Narrator had prepared a note for me for the doctor, detailing medicine doses and times for that day and all other pertinent information one might need when taking a child to a medical professional. I promptly left this at home along with her health card. A small green card without which it is next to impossible to get the receptionist to open the glass window, let alone see a doctor.
Maybe it's my personable demeanor or maybe my boyish good looks and charm coupled with the fact that the room was filled with other dads with other sick kids and I would bet my children's college education that not a single one of them had any sort of relevant information as to the nature of the child's illness...just like me...I'm sure it also helped our cause that the receptionist said 'Isobel, right?' as we walked up to the window.
We checked in and sat down to take our place among the walking wounded. Dads and their kids, who all had the same look of confusion on their faces. The fathers with a look of 'somebody call my name and tell me what to do next because I haven't the foggiest clue.' And kids who looked like they just didn't want to be sick anymore. And elderly people who just looked tired and worn out. Not necessarily sick so much as used up...And Izzy and me.
A man came in in a wheel chair and I knew Isobel would have something to say about it. She did.
"Why is he in that?" she whispered.
I was about to say something when the man in the wheel chair spoke up.
"I have a disease," he said. "Messages from my brain get lost and tell mu muscles to rest when the should move and to move when they should rest. That's why my legs are shaking and that's why I have to sit in this chair."
His legs were shaking, terribly and I never did figure out if the man had heard Izzy or if he was intuitive enough after so long in the chair to explain things to children who were obviously inquisitive about his situation. Whatever the answer, he explained himself better than I ever could. He got called by the nurse and Isobel and I went back to sitting and waiting.
In the morning before we left, Mrs. Narrator had remarked that The Boy had various ear problems in his younger day and they always put him on Zithromax. She wondered aloud why they had not put Isobel on it in the first place as the medicine she had been put on seemed to have a diminished effect on her ear.
Finally we called out of the ticket area and put into the departure lounge. Normally this will add at least another forty five minutes to your Doctor wait time, even Izzy knew this and complained 'Now we really have to wait.' The Doctor came in after a couple of minutes. I reached into my pocket to retrieve the list of information and when I realized I hadn't brought it with me, I began to founder hopelessly and stutter like a fool. Muttering things about fever and banana medicine tasting awful and how you just can't get a good health-care in the back of your car anymore. I thought of all the fathers sitting in the waiting room, helpless and lost and realized I had just crossed the line and joined their ranks. Mercifully, the Doctor had long since tuned me out and was looking at Isobel's ears.
"Yes," the Doctor began. "Quite a nasty infection. I'm going to put her on a heavy dose of Zithromax and it should burn out the infection in a couple of days."
I laughed out loud (thinking back on it now, it was an inappropriately long and loud laugh. The kind generally made by people of questionable wit who find themselves in uncomfortable situations.) I went on to explain to her about the conversation I had with Mrs. Narrator about The Boy and his messy ears. She actually looked at me and blinked, not saying a word for what seemed like an hour. She finally broke the silence saying she would just go and get the prescription off the printer. As she left the room I got a look from Isobel that said I was not the only one who was mortified by unbelievable 'Dadness.' As we were heading out she assured us that Isobel would be feeling much better in a day or two and with script in hand we headed out to the drug store.
We handed the pharmacist the piece of paper and I knew Izzy was already feeling better because she insisted on shopping and getting a bouquet of lollipops for her and also one for The Boy. We stepped up the pharmacist's counter to pay for the medicine and for the suckers and the pharmacist asked Isobel if he could have one of the suckers as he was explaining to me the dosage of her antibiotics. Izzy played a little bit shy at first but when he said he really wasn't going take a lollipop, she sort of warmed up to him. It might help to note that the pharmacist was a middle-eastern man.
"Daddy," she kind of half whispered. "he must have already been to the beach."
"Why?" I asked.
"He's got a tan." she said.
I laughed. The pharmacist laughed and gave her a big gumball out of the bucket on his counter...she was already feeling better...



I don't know why but Isobel's closet door has a lock on it. The keys to this door have been hanging on a little fuzzy picture holder that sits on her dresser, since forever. Of course like anything else, if she gets it into her mind to play with something it becomes open territory. She doesn't know the real use of most of these things and they tend to fall by the wayside. It's never been a problem before.
Of late however, Isobel has taken to playing with the lock on the door while she is picking out her clothes for school and closing the door just enough to get it open up again. A kindergarten version of dancing in front of the tiger's mouth only this time she got bitten.
She closed the door tight and said to me "It's not locked or anything."
Which told me immediately that it was locked, which set off a frantic search for the keys to open the door, which set off the boiler in my brain which drove my frustration levels through the roof. Packing it in for the night after realizing there was nothing I could do right then and so I would deal with it the following day.
I used to have some degree of skill with opening doors using credit cards and the like...these skills have long since left me. Round one to the door. I decided then that I would take the door off the hinges and there is something to be said about the craftsmanship of a door that is over a hundred years old. The frame is, more or less, intact and the door is open. After much swearing and cursing and sweating and telling my daughter that she is "Not going to touch the god-damned closet door ever again."
She started crying. "How can I pick my clothes if I can't touch my door?"
"Well you have to...you'll just...awww crap."
She is much smarter than I'll ever be...(as an addendum to this, this afternoon I was looking for the television remote which has disappeared into Isobel's play world somewhere. I put mu hand between the cushions of the couch, one of the usual remote hiding spots and lo and behold I pulled out...the closet keys.)