I had been sitting in my chair in the living room reading a book when my young daughter approached me with her doctor kit.
“I’d better make sure you’re okay,” she explained. She produced a toy thermometer, held it to my chest for a moment and then studied it seriously. “Uh-oh,” she said grimly. She then utilized her toy stethoscope and toy blood pressure cuff. After that she proceeded to hammer at my knee with her little doctor hammer – you know, the rubber hammer that doctors use for testing reflexes. I gave an obliging kick or two with my leg and she then tried it out on my elbow, wrist, and then my head. Ouch!
She then pulled out a toy scalpel. She started tracing lines out all over my body, conducting her surgery with great care and thoroughness. After a little bit, she stopped. She reached her hand up and placed it gently on my forehead and compassionately said, “Don’t worry. I’m going to put you back together.” Boy, was I glad to hear that! I hadn’t realized until that moment how big a project my undersized surgeon had taken upon herself.
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