Dad Diary

 "You want the poop to be like soft-serve ice cream. Or like mashed potatoes. It's OK if it's like a banana. But: a very, very ripe banana...."

I wonder, is this something close to the fantasy the doctor always nurtured, through childhood--the fantasy of a professional life?

Mainly, my son views the gastroenterologist as a kind of Santa Claus. "My tummy hurts," he says, loudly. When he notes his own impact, he smiles. He savors the attention. He says, "I really need a sticker...."

His sister likes stickers, too, but I can sense the *big* idea that is running through her head: "If I were a doctor, I'd do better." Susie begins to stick small plastic toys into my ear, and she also jabs them into my hip, as if administering a vaccine. "There," she says. "Do you feel happy?"

"Remember," says the actual clinician, "there are two things a child can control. What goes in his mouth. And what comes out of his butt. You can try to 'police' his poop habits--but it's like 'catching a wave upon the sand' .....And you can quote me, at your next P/T conference...."

This is the most dramatic event in my week.