My wife showed me and my daughter a swollen finger that she had gotten pinched in a door. Never one to miss an opportunity to turn any conversation into a conversation about me, I immediately launched into old sports stories. “That looks like MY knuckle when I dislocated it turning a double play…”
My daughter, however, had a more compassionate and nurturing approach. She pulled out a little clipboard and toy medical kit (she is in first grade), and began asking questions.
“Is your finger swollen?” Yes. Check.
“Do you feel OK?” No. Check.
“Do you want a band-aid?” Yes. Check.
I thought to myself, “My daughter is going to be a doctor.”
Then she pulled out a little hammer from her kit – the kind doctors use to test reflexes – and smacked my wife’s finger right on the swollen joint.
“Does that hurt?”
So maybe she is going to be a Warrant Officer.
She applied the band-aid, then looked for something with which to wrap the finger. Finding nothing, she improvised and used toilet paper and tape.
She is going to be a Corpsman, working miracles with whatever supplies are on hand.
Finally, when the finger was safely immobilized by a quarter inch of toilet paper and Scotch tape, she handed my wife a small piece of paper. On it was written, “$1”.
It was a bill.
So she is going to be a doctor after all.