“Baby, you’re sick. Go to the doctor!” My husband’s words were concerned, but strict.

Was he kidding? Does he not remember the whole, we-have-six-kids thing? And even when the oldest four are in school, I’m left to take the two toddlers to the hospital to contend with, all by myself, all while feeling craptastic. No, thank you.

I would consider it if it were worth going any more, but it’s not. Military doctors used to tell us “If the fever lasts more than 24 hours, come in.” We would be seen, thoroughly, have a prescription written, and onwards home we went, to begin feeling better sooner than later. Now, their new favorite line is “It’s just a virus.” Regardless of how long the fever’s lasted or how sick we are, we’re slapped on the wrist for being “silly worriers” and sent off our merry way told to medicate with good ol’ ibuprofen and to drink plenty of fluids. Why the heck would I waste my time going there for some silly virus and to be made fun of?

Let’s not forget what it’s like getting the brush-off by docs while bringing small children, who think all the knobs and buttons to push, along with medical instruments and the spinny doctor’s chair are awesomely fun. Who opencloseopenclose the doctor’s drawers, punch on his keyboard, try knocking over his jar of humongous Q-tip swab thingies and torturous tongue depressors.

“No, babe. I’ll be fine, I’m just going to stick it out at home. If I get worse, then I’ll go in.”

He grumbled and bemoaned my choice, but agreed—knowing I was already having a hard enough time without him. Unfortunately for me, I did have to go in the next day. And because the Military Curse Gods were smiling down at me, they had to add a powerful antibiotic to the mix. One that knocked me sideways to kill the infection. Because raising six kids alone while hubby’s away wasn’t hard enough already.

Oy.