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Pricks


Maybe it’s just me, but I think after having a certain number of kids, parents should be allowed to administer their drugs to them intravenously, like without a doctor’s license or anything.

It’s not like I just started med school yesterday. I’ve got sixty-something years of dispensing meds under my belt. I used to shoot my Grandma in the stomach with insulin, and I was only six. Hell, by the time I had my kids, I was practically the go-to family doctor in my neighborhood.

It might sound laughable, but I’m serious, and it’s probably the lady behind the counter at the pediatrician’s office that caused me to consider it in the first place. There I was setting appointments for my kids, and there she was asking for birthdates and names like I’d committed a crime and needed to produce a license, insurance, and registration post-haste to avoid her calling for back up.

When I got to child number seven, she stopped looking at her computer screen to look up at me incredulously to say, “How many more do you have!?”

I told her there were two more, so she took out a pad of paper to begin taking notes. I don’t know what was so magical about seven; I think most folks would have looked up at number three.

I’m not gonna lie; the question begs me to revisit highschool to ask myself yet again, “Was I playing hooky during sex education?”

Back then, life was rad or righteous or bomb.com or whatever. I get my decades mixed up. I was living a Dolly Parton life in my teens, working nine to five, so sex and babies didn’t fit into my schedule. That came much later, not too long after I became Dr. Grandparent Shoot ’Em Up.

So why I gotta gather CSI case files these days to have strangers do it? It’s not like I’m gonna leave a trail of blood from home to wherever they need to go.

I’m perfectly qualified to live and die as well as birth and kill. That’s what makes life beautiful, damn it.

The choices.