One of the things I love about Eric's endocrinologist is that he is a very, very funny guy. He loves kids, and he puts them at ease by clowning with them (there's even a photo of him dressed up in clown makeup, which I gather from the nurses was his Halloween costume a few years back).
Eric thinks he's great, and told him so at our visit yesterday.
"You're my fave-rit doctor," he said.
"Oh really? Why?" asked Dr. O.
"Because you don't give him shots," I said dryly, but Eric shook his head. "Because he's a CLOW-OWN, Mom," he said in that tone of voice that kids use when they think you're being dreadfully thick about something obvious.
We went through all the usual rigamarole about how much insulin he's given and when it's given and how things are going at school etc. and so on. Eric interrupted periodically to get attention, which he was always given. Then I was asked, "Any hospitalizations or major illnesses since last visit?"
I started to say no, then remembered the unpaid bill on my desk from the Maine Med ER. "Yes, actually. We wound up in the hospital one night last December."
Dr. O was puzzled. "I don't remember being called about that, and I should've been..." he began.
"Oh, it wasn't diabetes-related. Nate and Eric were in the tub and they got a little rambunctious, and Eric took a shot in the scrotum that displaced one of his testes."
"Mom, what's a deskees?" Eric interrupted, clearly puzzled by this discussion and, likely as not, wishing to be in the center of the conversation again.
"Your coconuts, honey," I answered, smiling. Background: When this incident had happened and Mark and I had taken Eric to the hospital (concerned about testicular torsion because of how red and painful the appendage in question had become), Mark had explained it to Eric by saying, "We have to take you in to the hospital so they can get some pictures of your coconuts to make sure they're still working right." Eric had spent the next 3 or 4 hours telling everyone he met that he was "having pictures of my coconuts!!", which amused the ultrasound tech and most of the ER staff to no end. He was so thrilled about being able to talk about his privates so openly that in the end, I had to write a short email to his teacher explaining that if he started making announcements in class about the condition of his coconuts, she was to gently steer him in a different direction, because he was NOT talking about the hard-shelled fruit of a tropical tree.
In the present, however, Dr. O was frowning. "How about we call them 'testicles' instead of 'coconuts'?" he said gravely (still with a twinkle in his eye, but there was a definite gentle rebuke there of the We Call Things By Their Proper Names And Are Not Squeamish HERE variety.)
So I dutifully said to Eric, "You know, Dr. Olshan is right. They are supposed to be called 'testicles.'"
"Oh," said Eric. Then he turned to Dr. O and announced with great seriousness, "You know, I had to go to the hospital and get pictures of my tentacles."
How can anyone pass up a straight line like that? I turned to the doctor, put a worried expression on my face, and said, "Doctor, I'm concerned. My son used to have coconuts, but now he's growing tentacles. Is this normal?"