I saw Dr. Sunshine today. That's right. His name is Sam Sunshine, MD.
He was as lovely as his name implies. I was DYING to ask such original questions as, "So, what happens when you're in a bad mood? What do people say to you when it rains? How many sing to you? Like, 'Sunshine, on my shoulder, makes me happy?' or 'Walking on Sunshine' or 'You are the Sunshine of my life?' What kind of name is that, anyway?"
Because I'm 12.
Then the (ahem) mature part of me resisted. That's right. I didn't ask a one. I was thinking them, but they stayed safely enclosed in my thought bubble.
He checked out my neck and, thankfully, I have no major issues. Just the stiffness and soreness of minor whiplash. When I turn it from side to side, the rice crispies noise you hear is just the inflammation.
He wanted to know if I wanted meds to help me sleep. It was tempting.
Oh, it was tempting.
I left the office with a parting gift: one of those cuffs you wear around your neck. The idea is it's supposed to support your head so that your neck can relax. My head is particularly heavy because of all the brains inside.
Sure it is.
I went home. And made dinner (leading my husband to question whether I did, in fact, scramble my brains in the car crash).
I even made something new.
Tilapia. Polenta, too.
And you will not believe this. Really. BOTH of the bigger kids ate it without complaints. AND they asked for seconds.
Clearly a meteor is going to land squarely on my house.
It will not smush any of the kids, my husband or the dogs.
It will, however, bruise me just enough.
So that I can see Sunshine again.
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