>Romeo

>The first three words of this post is actual documentation- a few minutes later I was still smiling at this kid and couldn’t resist getting our conversation recorded for posterity.

Pt enters office, limping dramatically on L leg. Sts, “I broke my leg!” When asked to see, he pulls up pant leg, swings leg onto my knee, and points to a small scuff on his calf.

On a normal day, I see up to a dozen of these life-threatening injuries. I have a large box in my office containing 5000 bandaids for this purpose. When busy, I sometimes will just put a bandaid on these little “boo-boos” without much thought or conversation. Then there are the days that Nurse Sara needed another cup of coffee, or another hour of sleep. On those days, sympathy runs a little short. I’ll add that they happen rarely, and are usually interrupted by a cute kid with a big smile (or a big pout and a couple alligator tears).

So, back to my little Romeo. I’ll say now that there are those truly great days that give me the energy and patience to have a little fun with these kids.

At this point, I’ve diagnosed him with Acute Needs Attention Disorder [ANAD]. I proceed to heal him using witchcraft, sawing it off with a plastic spoon, blowing it up with a pretend bomb, counting to 100, and singing the “my leg is better” song. Before I’m halfway through my bag of tricks, he’s snorting and laughing uncontrollably, dimples going full force. Romeo is shutting down my “healing” techniques one after another, saying, “NO! It didn’t work! Oh no!!” All the while balancing precariously on one foot.

You see why I can’t help but tease these kids.

Anyway, by the time Romeo left he was in possession of one “healed” leg, one bandaid, and a sticker with a crown on it. My little king lives to fight another day.