That's what the ER triage nurse called me. Perhaps it was because I chose the moment she was looking at the monster gash on Sophie's knee to say to my poor daughter, "Once, when you were a baby, you had to get stitches and they taped you to the table because you were wiggling and crying so hard." The nurse looked up at me like I was crazy. Then she said, "Good job, mom. Freak the kid out." For some reason I replied with some comment about being in labor for forty-four hours. And then I asked if there were any really horrible traumas going on. By the time I was done, the woman was ready to toss me right through the double doors.
I guess I was a little nervous.
I think the reason they make you wait so long in the ER is that they know that after five hours, even a terrified ten-year-old's fear will just sort of trickle away. Yes, five hours. When we arrived, they told us that there was only one person ahead of us. Four hours later, they told us that we were in luck, because there was only one person ahead of us.
Poor Sophie. She didn't even feel it when her uncle skated over her knee (they were executing some elaborate triple lutz that involved tumbling ass over elbow, whacking their heads on the ice, and stabbing one another with the points of their skates). What got her all upset was the prospect of stitches. But they did a nice job of numbing her, and I spent the whole time distracting her by crossing my eyes and making faces, and describing the plot of the children's novel I am planning to write.
So that was fun. If it hadn't been for Michael's brother (or "the perpetrator," as the resident insisted on calling him) telling me stories about his in-laws and his job, I would really have lost it. Did I mention we waited for five hours? But what are you going to say? “Stop treating that gun shot wound and the child seizing due to head injuries. We’ve got a sore knee here!”