Category Archives: Parenting

Secret Confessions of a Reluctant Soccer Mom

Part 1: The Game.

On Sunday we drove a little over two hours to get my eleven year old to his soccer game. The team won, which was nice. We also discovered a really fabulous restaurant – Roma Casual Italian and Greek Dining. (It was so good that we’re trying to think of excuses to drive to Winchester again…If you’re anywhere near the vicinity of Stephens City right off I-81 you should go)! On the way back home, we stopped at a couple scenic overlooks to admire the view, stretch our legs, and to take photos, of course:

Part 2: I have some confessions to make.

Four plus hours of driving for a seventy minute game seems grossly excessive to me.

I get anxious when it starts to rain on a practice day or a game day…

And if I get an email letting me know that soccer has been canceled because of the rain, I feel like this:

IMG_1231

Sometimes Often, I wish I were at home doing loads of laundry rather than sitting in the freezing cold/boiling hot weather watching my kids’ soccer games…And you can’t even imagine how much I hate doing laundry.

Sometimes I sit on the sidelines watching a game thinking that the other parents on the sidelines who are getting overly excited about a little kids’ soccer game are acting like jackasses.

Sometimes to my utter horror and amazement, I’m the jackass getting overly excited about the outcome of a little kids’ soccer game.

Here’s what I think whenever I see my son do a header:

There go his SAT scores!

There go his SAT scores!

Here’s how I felt yesterday when the team manager sent around an email to break the news that the tournament in Williamsburg our team had signed up for over Memorial Day weekend had been canceled…

IMG_1221

and would we want to go to one in Richmond instead?

And here’s how I felt when the coach sent around another email today to let us know that not enough people had expressed a burning desire to spend their Memorial Day weekend watching soccer game after soccer game after soccer game:

Shhhhhh! Please don’t tell my kids.

Library Love

In honor of National Library Week, I want to show some love for the libraries that have been important to me.

We moved around a lot when I was very young. Our neighborhood, our home, our school…these were always changing. What remained constant in our lives was our interior landscape. No matter where we were, we would always be surrounded by shelves crammed full of my dad’s treasure – the books that he couldn’t be parted with. Books were always a priority, so the other constant in our lives was that wherever we moved, one of the first places my dad would take us would be the public library.

I remember the feeling of joy and relief to see so many books when my dad took us to the local branch of the public library system in Arlington, Virginia. We had recently moved there from a postage stamp sized town in Pennsylvania, where the public library was housed in a minuscule house. I remember being worried that I would run out of books to read; if we had lived there much longer, I certainly would have. There was no shortage of books in the libraries in Arlington. Every week my brother and I would stagger out of the library under the weight of a grotesquely large mountain of books.

I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for the Library of Congress. My husband and I spent our first year of marriage doing research there side by side. My husband had not yet gotten a permanent teaching position and I was still in the very early stages of working on my dissertation. Our life was unsettled, but spending our days at the library made us feel like we were moving forward, even though we were really just treading water. It gave a comfortable and quiet rhythm to our days.

Years later in Cranbury, New Jersey, where we lived when the terrible events of 9/11 took place, I found solace at the public library. I would take my little son there every day and sometimes twice a day. Whenever we showed up, the white-haired librarians would come running to see my toddler. When they realized I was pregnant with my second child, they were reproachful. “You’re going to make him grow up too fast,” they told me as they put their arms around their beloved pet as if to shelter him from his monstrous and overly fertile mother.

What I checked out that year probably did nothing to endear me to them. I had never had trouble sleeping before, but all that year, the only way I could fall asleep would be to listen to books on tape. I discovered murder mysteries that year. I would listen to them all night long to banish the horrible images in my head. At the end of those stories, there was always a reckoning where good would triumph over evil. I got through that year with a lot of help from Dorothy Sayers and P.D. James.

Of the many libraries in my life, the one I have loved most of all is Crozet Library. When we moved to the western part of Charlottesville, I discovered this library, located in this teeny tiny, adorable little train depot:

I spent many happy hours there with my children when they were very young and I was staying at home with them.

The librarians here were the loveliest, kindest, most generous people in the world. They tended to the library as lovingly as they personally tended the little garden out front, which would brim with roses, poppies, and geraniums all summer long.

Story time was a revelation. Miss Rhonda put so much love and creativity into her presentations, it felt like a privilege to be there. Sometimes during story time a train would start rumbling by and she would encourage the kids to run to the big picture window overlooking the tracks to wave as it went by. Once at the end of story time, she brought all the kids out to sing Happy Birthday to her fellow librarian, who stood with her eyes shining and her hands clasped together. The library always felt like a snug harbor where only good existed.

I was amazed by all of the wonderful programs they would put on with very little resources. There was the “Fancy Nancy Party”:

And the “Winnie the Pooh Party”:

There was always a terrific summer reading program with themes like “Under the Sea”:

One summer we participated in the “Where in the World is Claudius Crozet” program with our cutout figure of the man for whom the town is named. We brought Claudius on our trip to California and, as is my wont, I took things a little too far…

By the end of our trip to California, I feared that my exasperated husband would do bodily harm to our my little cutout friend.

One summer we marched with the library in a town parade. It was so much fun…

until the kids started broiling under the brutal heat of the sun:

The library had been bursting at the seams for years. The county finally broke ground on a beautiful new building just around the corner from the old one. Last year there was an incredibly moving ceremony to move the last of the books from the little train station to the new building. Members of the community, including many children who walked over from the local elementary school, stood in a long line from the old library to the new library. They passed books hand over hand from one to the other. I was so sad to miss this because it was during work hours. Hopeless sap that I am, I shed tears watching the video of the ceremony.

The new building is pretty spectacular:

The librarians continue to be the very heart and soul of Crozet. They continue to provide wonderful programming in their beautiful new space.

But life’s gotten busy and the kids have gotten older. Once I started working, it got harder to get the kids to the library. We drive past the gleaming new building every week on our way to my daughter’s violin lesson. Every week, she was begging to go to there and would sigh when I said we didn’t have the time to fit it in. One day, she made it clear to me how important it was to her when she advised me that she had done some research and that we could go on Monday or Tuesday, when it would stay open until 9.

I felt chastened when I thought back to my own childhood and about how my dad would take us to the library every single week without fail, no matter how busy he was. I’ve promised her that I would do my best to take her there every week.

Life is busy, but you have to make time for the important things.

Six Flags

Yesterday I wrote about being trapped on a paddle-boat in the Tidal Basin with one crabby, one cantankerous, and one ailing kid as being a sort of existential hell.

In fact, the real hell on earth is any amusement park. I’ve always hated amusement parks, even as a child. I’ve gone out of my way to avoid them for all these years. I’m not quite sure what madness gripped me when I bought tickets to Six Flags for me and the three kids. I tried to convince my friend and my sister to come with us. My friend very politely declined. “Oh wow! Saturday? Ummm… Oh, SHOOT! That’s the day I clip my toenails. Otherwise…” My sister was far more blunt. She laughed in my face and said, “Six Flags? Oh thanks, but I’d rather douse myself in gasoline and set myself on fire. I’d rather bash in my own kneecaps with a baseball bat. I’d rather gouge my own eyeballs out with a melon baller.”

I totally understand these reactions. Life is scary and unpredictable enough as it is. I honestly don’t understand what possesses people (ME!) to actually pay a lot of money to do things like this to themselves:

Roller Coaster

In my case, it’s stupidity, plain and simple.

For example, I agreed to go on a roller coaster called “Apocalypse.”

“What did you do that for?” my husband asked incredulously, when I told him about it afterwards.

“Well, I didn’t see what it was going to be like until I actually did it,” I answered defensively.

“Did the name Apocalypse not give you a hint?!”

Post Apocalypse

I lost some IQ points on that ride for sure. How bitterly I regret letting the kids ride that roller coaster before they even got a chance to take their PSATs! It felt like being flung violently down ten flights of stairs. And then being pummeled by a band of rabid gorillas at the bottom of the stairs. We were rattled about so hard that it felt like we were being punched repeatedly in the head by the so-called “headrests.” My legs were shaking as I staggered off the ride. I was sore for days afterwards. I resolved not to do any more scary rides.

By this time, we were all probably suffering from concussions and weren’t in our right minds, which would explain why the boys decided to go on “The Joker’s Jinx” roller coaster next. Once again, we failed to watch the ride first to see what it entailed. This nasty roller coaster starts by hurtling you right out of the gate with an acceleration from 0 to 60 mph in three seconds. After that, there are all kinds of loops and spins.

My son assured me that it was far worse than the Apocalypse. Here they are, returning after their ride.

Joker’s Jinx

Let’s zoom in, shall we?

Joker’s Jinx Close Up

We decided to regroup and be kinder to ourselves. The kids rode the bumper cars and then a gentle ride called “Pirate’s Flight.”

My oldest kept trying to persuade his little brother to go on more rides with him with names like “Mind Eraser.” Being an obliging sort of person, he would agree. Obliging, not stupid. By this time, he had learned his lesson. We would go check it out, he would take one look, and then turn right back around.

Photo by Coasterman1234 at en.wikipedia

Finally we saw a ride that looked like we could all handle it. It had cute cows with rhinestone collars. No need to watch the ride in action. What could be more benign than cute cows wearing jewelry? The boys settled into one cow and my daughter and I into another. And then this happened:

(Watch at your own peril).

It was truly awful. We staggered off the ride clutching our heads and bellies. We all had to sit down in stunned silence to recover from the horror. Everyone agreed that this was the worst ride of them all.

In the end, my teenager did manage to badger the eleven year old into going on one more roller coaster with him called “The Wild One”:

That was enough for us all:

The next morning the eleven year old said wonderingly, “I can’t believe I went on all of those rides.”

“Did you enjoy any of them?” I asked.

“No. Not really,” he said.

“So you probably wouldn’t ever want to go back?” I asked.

“Of course I would!” he answered promptly.

“But WHY?”

“Because it’s so awesome when the ride is over. You feel so relieved.”

Here’s the real punch line, my friends: I bought season tickets.

The Tidal Basin…or: L’enfer c’est les autres

The cherry blossoms hadn’t quite popped yet, but the Cherry Blossom Festival was in full swing this weekend.

After lunch, we decided to go paddle-boating in the Tidal Basin.

Two people had to peddle in our four person boat. My three kids argued over who would get to peddle as if they were vying for seats on the U.S. Olympic rowing team. The man who was helping us into the boat solved the problem by suggesting that we return to the dock halfway through to switch positions.

“Remember! You’re not allowed to switch positions in the middle of the water,” he warned, “When you’re ready to switch, you have to come back here and we’ll help you do it.”

The boys took the first shift:

while my daughter and I relaxed:

Halfway through the hour, we returned to the dock so that my daughter could have a turn. My oldest son graciously gave up his coveted spot to switch positions with her…

Moments before all hell broke loose.

…and immediately transformed into a crazed martinet. “FASTER! Peddle faster, you maggots!” he shouted gleefully.

His siblings bore his strident orders with good humor at first, but the relentless nature of his hectoring soon began to pall. Undeterred by my dirty looks and increasingly forceful requests that he put a sock in it, he kept goading his younger siblings. We were like the characters in Sartre’s Huis Clos, who eventually come to realize that they are in hell, and that their punishment is being trapped for eternity with each other.

To distract the kids, I suggested that we go investigate some white rocks I could see in the distance. I didn’t recognize them and wanted to get a closer look.

The two kids got the boat fairly close to the rocks, but not close enough for me to make out what they were.

“I still can’t see what they are. Can you get a little closer?” I asked.

My conscientious eleven year old, our family’s own Jiminy Cricket, advised me against this unwise course of action. “It will take us too long to get back to the dock if we get any closer to the rock.”

“But I really want to see what they are. How about you get us just a little closer?”

Meanwhile, my eldest took this as a signal to renew his taunts.

“CLOSER! Get CLOSER! Peddle harder, you maggots! I want to see bubbles in our wake!!!”

Against his own better judgment, Jiminy Cricket steered us close enough to the rocks so that I could see at last that it was the new(ish) Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial:

“OK, let’s head back now!” I said, sneaking a peek at the time.

“How much time do we have left to get back to the dock? NO! Don’t tell me, it will just stress me out. OK, go ahead and tell me.”

“Ummm, well, we have about ten minutes.”

Now Jiminy Cricket was pissed. He started scolding both of us.

“You HAD to see the rock! And NOW we’re going to be late getting back to the dock. Don’t blame me if they make us pay more for the boat! I TOLD you it would take too long, but NO, you HAD to get closer.”

“Don’t stress out about it! If we have to pay extra, we’ll just pay extra. It’s not a big deal,” I tried to reassure him.

All the while, his brother provided a steady dose of maddening counterpoint: “Is that the best you can do? We’re not even moving! Come ON! Peddle for all your worth, Maggots!”

Jiminy Cricket lost it: “YOU peddle then. I’m not going to peddle anymore!”

“I’d be glad to peddle, but we’re not allowed to switch.” (For some reason, now my eldest son switched to a velvety, smarmy English accent dripping with evil).

For dramatic effect my second son stopped peddling, even though I know it was killing him not to be making any progress back toward the dock.

“Well somebody has to peddle…,” I ventured, as the boat came to a standstill.

At that point we realized the youngest was not feeling well.

“I think I might throw up,” she moaned.

“Just stop peddling. STOP PEDDLING! Take your feet OFF the pedals. I can manage myself!” shrieked my poor little Jiminy Cricket as he resumed peddling as fast as he could, “UGH! My back is KILLING me! My legs are killing me!”

“QUIT your whining, you maggot and peddle!” (I whacked the boy to shut him up – to no avail). “Don’t tell me that’s the best you can do. Peddle harder!!!”

The ridiculousness of it got to me and I started shaking with silent laughter.

“You think this is FUNNY?!” asked Jiminy Cricket, apoplectic with rage.

“NO! I’m sorry! It’s not funny at ALL!” I said trying to get a hold of myself, “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you peddle, but….”

Finally, we made it back to the dock, about fifteen minutes past the time we were due. Fortunately, they took pity on us, and let us stagger off into the sunset without any additional payment.

As we walked on, my sweet Jiminy Cricket said, “Thanks so much for taking us on the awesome boat ride, Mommy.” I looked at him suspiciously to see if he was mocking me, but he continued with earnest sincerity, “It was so much fun!” (That one’s a keeper, I’m telling you)!

The three siblings reconciled…

and we headed back to meet up with my sister for our ride back to Arlington.

National Museum of Natural History

Last week was spring break for all three kids, but not for my husband or for me. The older two boys were OK on their own, but for the first two complicated days, our youngest child alternated between sitting through her dad’s college lectures and my advising hours. We took turns ferrying her mid-day to a half-day soccer camp and then back home at the end of the day. After just the first day, it became clear that my vague plan to take some time off from work needed to happen sooner rather than later. I decided to take off Wednesday through Friday and to take the kids to Arlington.

On Thursday we hitched a ride into DC with my sister and I took the kids to the Natural History Museum.

Look! It’s me in a kayak!

(See: Kayaking: Or How I almost killed my P.E. Teacher)

The mummies were ghastly:

The animal mummies were kind of cute:

crocodile
cat mummy
group of crocodile hatchlings

The insect zoo is always a hit:

We caught the tarantula feeding…

We checked out the butterfly exhibit. The butterflies checked us out too:

And then we scoped out the gems. I took plenty of notes and photos to give my husband some ideas for my birthday…

Tucked way back in an alcove is a Korea exhibit!

Time for lunch!

Tomorrow: The Tidal Basin…or “L’enfer, c’est les autres.” 

Happy Birthday!

Today is my child’s fourteenth birthday.

We were overjoyed when we found out that I was pregnant with our first baby. We had been trying for a long time to have one, and were beginning to think it might never happen. Almost as soon as we had gotten used to the idea, our joy turned to despair when I started spotting. At the hospital a doctor performed an ultrasound and concluded that I was miscarrying when he didn’t find a heartbeat. He offered to do a D & C (dilation and curettage) right then and there to hasten the inevitable. Devastated, I said I just wanted to go home. He told me I would lose the baby naturally in a couple of days and to come back for a checkup.

I spent those days in bed sobbing. When my mother called me from Korea, I told her that I was pregnant and that I was miscarrying all in the same conversation. She called me later that day after consulting medical professionals she knew in Korea. She told me there was still hope. She was deluding herself, I thought. I pitied her, and pitied myself even more. The only thing that kept me calm was repeating Psalm 23 in my head over and over in the rich, archaic language of the King James version. I hadn’t even realized that I knew it by heart until then. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside still waters…Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

When we went back to the hospital, they did another blood test and were surprised by the results. They sent me to get another ultrasound and within seconds the technician casually said, as if she were not announcing something life-changing and miraculous: “There’s the heartbeat.”

The point is: from the very beginning it’s been a bumpy, winding road. These past fourteen years have been full of drama. There have been painful times and searingly beautiful moments when I have felt a love so intense that it literally hurt my heart. The point is: this “Prince of the Silla Dynasty,” as my parents dubbed him at birth, has taught me to have faith and to believe in goodness and mercy and miracles.

Happy birthday to my dear son. My cup overflows.

Snow Days

On Monday we woke up to a winter wonderland. Work: CANCELLED! School: CANCELLED! It was a gift that literally fell from the sky!

We began Monday morning with a conference.

“What we have here is an amazing opportunity to get a lot of things accomplished. We’re certainly not going to waste it by lazing about all day in our pjs, right? Right! So! Let’s brainstorm about what global problems or crises you’ll tackle today. I’d like your action plan by noon and the solution to the problem to be implemented by the end of the business day. T2! What problem will you be addressing?”

“Ummm…cancer?”

“Excellent! T1?”

“I’ll solve the problem of world hunger and deal with the crisis in Ukraine.”

“Love the enterprising attitude! Off you go! N?”

“My project will be…the reunification of the Koreas, I guess?”

“YES! Let’s get to work! Go, GO, GO!”

Here they are, toiling away industriously:

Drive and diligence!
Mid-day conference over hot cocoa.
Our genius dog lent his intellectual firepower to the proceedings.
Uncompromising focus!

“Going the extra mile”:

And that’s the way we get things done around here!

Locker Intervention

When my son showed up for his English class last Friday without his textbook yet again, his saintly teacher staged a locker intervention. In the email she sent to us afterward, she explained that not only had they found the book he was missing, she had also discovered a veritable cornucopia of food in his locker. There was enough to feed an entire continent…if it weren’t for the fact that it was growing limbs and developing individuated personalities. There was an entire wardrobe of clothing crammed in there too. On Sunday when the usual mad scramble for “church pants” was going on, I serenely pulled a pair out of the dryer that I had just washed from The Great Locker Clean Out 2014. Unfortunately, I failed to take into account the fact that they’d been stashed in my son’s locker for a few months:

So…tea length capris – that’s a good look, right?

Baby Boy

A few summers ago, we were heading to the beach to meet up with family friends with whom we were sharing a house. Our children would be sharing a bunk room for a week, and, we imagined, all the knowledge that they had amassed between them through friends, family, and sex ed classes. We knew that our friend’s son, who was going to school in another state, had already had these classes, and that even before this, his parents had dutifully taught him everything there is to know.

We, on the other hand, as usual, were woefully behind the curve. Not only had our son not yet gone through the “Family Life Education” classes as they are euphemistically called here in Virginia, we, as parents, had not given him any real information at all. I’m sure my son would say that we are overprotective parents, although he’d probably put it in a slightly different way. When he first asked me where babies came from, I flat out panicked and blurted out the first thing that came to my head, “You go to the hospital and the doctor helps you have the baby.” Period.

And so, as we drove down to the Outer Banks, my husband and I decided that at the very first opportunity, he would head things off by taking our son for a walk on the beach to have “The Talk.”

Later, he reported their conversation to me with a half grin on his face. It had been going pretty well, he told me, until he got to the actual mechanics…

“Ewww! That’s disgusting!” my son exclaimed as he recoiled in visceral horror.

“It’s really not that bad,” my husband tried to reassure him.

“Why? Does the doctor put you to sleep first?” my son asked with such sweet innocence that I really had to wonder if we had made a terrible mistake in tearing away the veil.

As a firstborn, our son has had to weather his parents’ inexperience. It’s often difficult for us to gauge how to treat him. I’ve always felt guilty about the fact that at the tender age of two, he automatically became “a big boy” in my eyes, the very minute his little brother was born. When I look back at pictures of how very little he was back then, I am filled with sorrow and regret that I didn’t baby him for longer.

On the other hand, he has always been the kind of kid who has bridled against being treated as a child. I remember one morning, when our son was a Kindergartner, my husband returned back home after seeing him onto the school bus with his shoulders slumped and a mournful expression on his face. As he had done every morning for months, he had given our son a big hug as he saw the bus pulling up to the stop. Our son bore it stoically, but as he mounted the stairs, he stopped and turned around for a moment. Gazing into the distance he said with a world-weary sigh, “I wish people wouldn’t hug me in public.”

It’s only gotten more confusing with time. He can now finally sit in the passenger seat next to me when I drive, but I usually have to remind him of the fact as he automatically heads towards the back of the minivan. I still have to nag him to do his homework and to pick up his clothes, but to do so, I have to crane my neck to look up at him as I shout my directives. Last week my husband bought our son his first razor and he shaved for the first time. He absolutely refused a tutorial, insisting that he’d figure out  how to do it “on the internet.”  This week, he’s going to get braces. And so we bumble on, hoping that he feels as cherished and loved as a newborn, while knowing that we are cheering him on as he makes his way to adulthood.

Nicholas holding up one of his baby outfits.

Related posts:

Adolescence
Rite 13, Pt. 1
Rite 13, Pt. 2
I am truly evil
The Inferno
This morning…
Lost and Found
Im/maturity

It’s not appendicitis!

Things were looking dire for my middle child this morning. Yesterday, he spent the entire day in bed without eating a thing. This morning he felt even worse. He looked gray and was hunched over in pain. He clutched his belly as he hobbled down the stairs. My husband was convinced he had appendicitis.

With zero medical training between us, we are swift and confident in our diagnoses. We’ve read WebMD and have had three children after all. We were especially confident that we were dealing with appendicitis, because our oldest child had it three years ago.

We quickly made a game plan that involved a complete shift in our usual routine. Colin took our daughter to school and I drove my son’s carpool. Colin would take our sick child to our family medicine practice to be evaluated and I would leave work to meet them there once they arrived.

“Poor T. I hope he’s ok,” I fretted as I drove his older brother and his friends to school.

“Me too. And, I hope if he does have appendicitis and he has to have surgery, you don’t do what you did to me when I had it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember how the doctors wanted me to stay an extra night, but you were so desperate to get out of the hospital you made me walk around the nurse’s station to prove that I was ready to leave? And I was in so much pain, but you made me do it anyway.”

Ummm. This absolutely shocking and horrible allegation is sort of true.

I was desperate to get out of there. But in my defense, as I’ve mentioned before, my son feels things more keenly and expresses those feelings more vociferously than the average child. After his appendectomy, the doctors and nurses kept checking on his recovery with their pain assessment tool, the one with a series of  faces grimacing in increasing degrees of anguish. You could tell they were expecting him to point to the slightly frowny It’s OK, I Can Take It Face when asked how much pain he was experiencing. Instead, he’d always, always point to the Holy Mother of Pearl, I’m In Mortal Agony Face.

Staying in hospitals is awful for so many reasons. What made it especially miserable this time was that we were sharing a room with a little toddler whose parents weren’t spending the night with him. The poor boy cried all night, but I wasn’t allowed to pick him up or comfort him myself. Instead, I had to repeatedly call for a nurse to come attend to him throughout the night. It was heartbreaking.

I had to get out of there, and I was convinced that it would be much better for my son to rest and recuperate at our own house. The condition put upon his release was that he would have to be able to walk without too much difficulty. To prove that he was mobile, he would have to walk all the way around the nurse’s station.

I whispered a little pep talk in his ear before he set off.

“I know you’re hurting, but try not to make it seem like such a big deal, OK?”

I know. I’m Caligula’s eviller twin sister.

Hunched over like a shrunken, little old man, clutching his IV pole, the poor boy staggered around the nurse’s station as if he were on the last mile of the Bhutan death march. I hovered in the background whispering encouragements, “Come on! Straighten up a little! Put a little pep in your step! You can do it!”

He was discharged.

I fully expected my middle child to be admitted this morning. I was mentally preparing to atone for my past sins by letting him stay as long as he needed to in the hospital. Instead, as soon as he got to the doctor’s office, he magically came back to life. He regained his color, his appetite, and his vim and verve. And despite the fact that the doctor looked like he couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, and made his diagnosis without even consulting WebMD, we gladly concurred when he declared that he merely had a virus and sent us on our way.

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