Family Shenanigans: The Cobbler's Children Have No Shoes

The Cobbler’s Children Have No Shoes
Poop-Warning: for those with potty sensibilities

You know the old saying, “the cobbler’s children have no shoes”? Well. In our house, the doctor in our house tends to ignore his sick children.

I can’t say it came as any surprise to me. Danny tells a story from his own childhood about being sick with Hepatitis while on a trip to Egypt. He had to convince his dad he was truly ill. I think he was about 9 years old at the time.

So, when we had children, I knew that if our children were really sick, that I’d have to push Danny to take action, or go behind his back and consult our family doctor.

Danny is a very intelligent man. He is a good doctor. All the time, people stop me and let me know how great he was with their family member. How tender and compassionate he is.

It’s always hard for me not to chuckle. Compassionate doctor is not who we see at home. It’s Mr. Clinical Assessment with no bedside manner at our house.

My case in point: Our son, Dylan, has had diarrhea for about 9 days now. Yikes, you might say. Have you taken him to the doctor yet? Don’t all the medical advisories say if it lasts longer than 3 days to contact your doctor? Yep.

Danny is aware that Dylan is sick. But, apparently, Dylan had to be sick enough to warrant any kind of action. Danny’s rule of home-doctoring is: “this too shall pass”. And for the most part, he’s right. Children today are put on antibiotics far too often and most colds, sick bugs, ailments, etc- tend to pass rather quickly, and your body is better for it if you can build immunity.

So, last night, when I realized for the second night in a row, there was blood in Dylan's diarrhea- I alerted Danny. He said, “Huh.” This is the “Huh” I recognize as meaning, ‘that is a significant piece of information, now I’m paying attention.’

This morning, Danny “examined” Dylan. Picture if you will, a man in scrubs, hands on hips, staring down at a small boy- still fighting to stay asleep (poor kid had been up several times last night). No poking, pushing, or questions. Just staring. Like some sort of Jedi examination.

Danny left the room. “I’ll order him some Flagyl.”

I wasn’t feeling like this was the best exam my son had ever received.

“Do you want me to call our doctor and let her know what’s going on?”

“Nah, you don’t need to do that.” He turned and headed back upstairs.

“I just want to be sure we’re not thinking this is something little and it turns out to be really big.”

I guess being married to me for 12 years let him hear what I was really saying. “It’s not cancer,” he said. Then he named a few other things it could be and why Flagyl would probably do the trick.

I needed to know he cared. I needed him to say, “I get why this scares you. I know what I’m talking about. It’ll be okay.” But he doesn’t say things like that, unless I tell him to. So he just explained why our family doctor wouldn’t do anything differently and reassured me that he actually was concerned and felt confident this antibiotic would help.

I let him go. I got my little boy out of bed. I heard him cry out in pain when another wave of painful diarrhea shot through him. I rubbed his back while I held my breath, and hoped his daddy was right.

It’s not that I doubt Danny’s skill. But I can’t ever shake the worries. From the day that first pregnancy test turned positive, I have had no shortage of worry for my children.

I think my “writer” brain makes it worse. I concoct worst case scenarios in a blink and images of life without my son (or one of my girls- in the worst of the worst cases- without any of them) flash before me. It’s too painful to imagine. So I have to hunt down all possible ways of preventing this pain. Hence the second-guessing of my intelligent doctor-spouse.

Sadly, the last thing I do is realize that I haven’t given the situation over to God. I am clinging to the possibility of disaster with a white-knuckled grip and all the while, God is going- “I love those kids even more than you do, now let go already and give it to me.” I do, eventually, but not before I lay the foundation for knotted shoulders, white hairs, and possibly an ulcer.

Part of me thinks, for whatever reason, that if I actually let go- that God might not intervene. At least if I can keep the most terrible possibility in front of me, then it won’t be a surprise when it happens.

But the joke is on me, I have no control in this. I have a role to play- be a concerned parent, love my child, and make sure I get him the care he needs- but it stops there. The rest of it is out of my control and always has been, and sadly (for my control-freaky self) it always will be. And what happens in the future, even if it is a terrible thing, still won’t be the way I pictured it.

There is no reassurance for me in letting God have my worry. But I do it because I know- I know- God loves my baby deeper, better, and stronger than I do. I trust that.

So, if you’re reading this, and you pray, and you trust prayer to change things- hold my little guy in your prayers.

I’ll be here, reluctantly prying my hands off the worry, one finger at a time.