Like father, like son

The blood loss, com­bined with the prox­im­ity of the wound to his eye, meant a trip to the emer­gency room

Cape Breton Post - - Editorial - Steve Bartlett Steve Bartlett is an ed­i­tor with SaltWire Net­work. He dives into the Deep End each Mon­day to es­cape re­al­ity and ques­tions about the num­ber of brown McDon­ald’s bags on his car floor. Reach him at sbartlett@thetele­gram.com.

“Steve, can you stop over to Ren­nie’s?” my wife asks over the hands-free as I’m driv­ing home.

I say yes to her and “YEESSS!” to my­self. Ren­nie is our neigh­bour. I sus­pect (er … hope) my wife was over talk­ing to them and he’s ask­ing me to stop by for a pre-din­ner bev­er­age.

In­stead of a cold beer, I’m greeted at Ren­nie’s door by a ban­daged face.

My son’s!

He took a stick in the eye play­ing street hockey.

He acts and ap­pears fine, but ap­par­ently he’s lost some blood and the cut is deep.

My wife leads me out­side and points to some stains.

The blood loss, com­bined with the prox­im­ity of the wound to his eye, mean a trip to the emer­gency room.

My boy wants no part of it.

“I just want to go back out and play hockey,” he ar­gues.

I feel like chan­nelling Cherry: “Put ’er there, kid. You’re my type of player, a great Cana­dian kid. Takes one in the eye and all that mat­ters is get­ting back out there.”

In­stead, I go into dad mode: “I know you want to play hockey, but a doc­tor has to look at your eye.”

We head to the hos­pi­tal. An in­tern ex­am­ines him and says the cut is bor­der­line, that my boy may or may not need stitches.

He leaves and re­turns with an­other doc­tor.

They opt not to stitch, but to seal it with glue.

A nurse joins the doc­tors and they be­gin seal­ing it up.

My son fires a mil­lion ques­tions at them.

What are you do­ing? Why are you do­ing it? How are you do­ing it? What kind of glue is it? Will it get in my eye? Have you done this be­fore? OMG, I say to my­self, he’s like a lit­tle jour­nal­ist.

OH NO, I say to my­self, he’s like a lit­tle jour­nal­ist!

I love my pro­fes­sion, but not the ac­com­pa­ny­ing oc­cu­pa­tional haz­ard.

I’m al­ways ask­ing ques­tions — of ev­ery­one and ev­ery­thing, from com­plete strangers to stray dogs.

Those who are close to me get the worst of it.

And then there’s my poor wife.

She takes more daily ques­tions than Sean Spicer.

I call while writ­ing this and ask, “Do you think I ask too many ques­tions?”

It was just like I had thrown gas on a lit bar­be­cue.

“Yes, you cer­tainly do,” she replies, “Sure, last night I asked you to pick up one sim­ple item at the store and you phoned me twice with more ques­tions about it.” Guilty as charged.

And the thing is, I know the con­stant ques­tions are re­ally, re­ally an­noy­ing.

I just don’t know how to turn the freakin’ things off.

And now it ap­pears my son is a chip off the old block.

I feel bad for the doc­tors and nurse as he con­tin­ues grilling them.

He’s the pa­tient, but asks more ques­tions than the three of them com­bined.

I try to spare them by an­swer­ing one of the boy’s queries my­self.

“Dad, you’re not a doc­tor yet,” he shoots back.

He con­tin­ues prod­ding the physi­cians.

On the way home, I ask if all his ques­tions were an­swered.

Ex­cept one, he says, “Can we go to McDon­ald’s?”

The child is a mini-me. No ques­tion about that.

“Dad, you’re not a doc­tor yet,”

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