Tiny Town has many attractions and is usually filled with a mess of kids running in every direction. Caretakers lean against the walls and sit on benches, watching their wards and scrolling through their phones. There is an effort to not be too involved but also not too far away in case there’s trouble.
There is a large, plastic tree in the center of the village around which the rest of the town is arranged. The post office is next to the grocery store with plastic fruits and vegetables, gummy from the grungy hands of the “shoppers”, there is a music room with drum sticks that work best on a sibling’s head, a workshop without any tools and a medical clinic with a rubber hammer and a plastic stethoscope and syringe.
I only had eyes for my boys as they raced from place to place. One eye for each boy when they separated into different areas and then reunited. They held hands and ran together into the medical clinic. Immediately, they became the Blond Boy Doctor Team and I was the patient in need of serious medical attention.
“Sit,” Baby Brother said and patted the examination table.
“Ok, but no shots today,” I tried to bargain.
He gave me a knowing nod as though to say, the doctor knows best, and you are definitely getting shots.
“I check you out,” Baby Brother said.
He gently tapped my shoulder with the rubber reflex hammer and nodded while his brother prepared the plastic syringe.
“Time for your medicine,” Little Legs explained.
“You need band-aide?” Baby Brother asked.
Already at their tender ages of 2 and 4, they have excellent bedside manners, I thought, and they are so handsome.
My reflection was cut short when a mangy haired boy, a full head taller than Little Legs, stomped into the clinic. I first noticed the biker boots, two sizes too big, black and scuffed, tied with rainbow laces. He wore purple galaxy pants and a plain black t-shirt.
He held out a pair of plastic forceps and began his reign of terror, pinching in the air like a crab out of the water and then locking onto my shirt and stomach.
“Stop it,” I said.
He pinched me again.
I screamed, naturally, and ran out of the clinic with the heathen child still attached via pinchers. What could I do? I didn’t want to put my hands on the crab-boy but he was trying to hurt me.
“Stop it, kid. You are hurting me,” I said.
Still, no caregiver in sight. Was this boy here on his own? What did he want from me? What would he do to someone smaller than him if he was willing to take on a full grown woman?
Hello, was anyone going to help me with this wild child?
Little Legs and Baby Brother had seen enough, they stepped into action.
Little Legs gave the kid a chest bump which sent the boy flying to the side, while Baby Brother wrapped himself around my legs as a buffer. When the boy came back, Little Legs was waiting. He gave his best dinosaur roar and held up his claw hands as a warning. This time, the boy left for good.
The Brothers were victorious.
I do not endorse any kind of fighting or physical interventions, we don’t spank or curse or even yell, for the most part. However, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of how they jumped to protect me with the leg wrap and dinosaur approach.
They are my sweeties, medical providers and heroes, and it’s all in a single day’s work for them.