I go to the dentist today during Mike's lunch hour. I expect to be gone an hour. I'm at the dentist for 1 1/2 hours-- chatty hygienist, chatty doctor, chatty receptionist-- time flies when you're having fun.
I return home. There's a message on Mike's phone from the receptionist. "Traci, please call our office immediately."
I'm alarmed. I payed my bill before leaving the office. I didn't leave my purse. Hmmmm. I call.
My hygienist is on her way to the occupational health clinic. She had an accident involving a tool that was used on my teeth. Because my teeth enamel were on the instrument, I must have my blood drawn at the clinic to show that I have no diseases.
What? Are you kidding?
I call the clinic. "I have two young kids. I'll come and give my blood, but I will not wait, and someone must tend to my kids while I'm in the chair."
They oblige.
The office is filled with bleeding workers. I guess that's what "occupational health" means. Jonah is good. He's dumbfounded by the blood. He keeps staring and saying something about the "bloodstream in your legs" that he no doubt learned from the Magic School Bus video we rented from the library last week. A teenager from church works there and holds Lydia-- with her dripping nose and fever.
It shouldn't be a big deal, but when does one dental check-up ever take 3 1/2 hours to complete?
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