What do you call it when a redhead has a hissy fit? That, my friends, is called a Ginger Snap.

I took my Ginja Ninja to the doctor this morning to see if his ear infection had cleared up.

We’re going to the doctor to see if your sick ear is all better, buddy.


Followed by some Oscar-calibre pouting.

And so we went; he’s not the boss of me.

Guess what? There are toys in the waiting room.


Toys are incentive enough to cooperate. He plays away, adored by old ladies with perms, one hand moving the wooden pegs on the abacus, one hand squeezing his juice box.

They call our name. I take his hand and move toward the door that leads to the doc’s office. Max digs in. The sign on the door read SLAUGHTERHOUSE and Max was a juicy heffer whose time had come.

He knew there was trouble beyond the door. Seemed a good time for a lie:

They have toys back there, Max!

He agrees – they just bloody well might.

The toy becomes my iPhone, of course. They don’t call it a smart phone for nothing. It’s the only thing keeping him from swinging from the doorknob of the examination room in a desperate attempt to escape.

Good morning, Max. The smiling doctor enters.

NO! Flaming orange eyebrows furl.

Fair enough. In his books, it is not a good morning. First he got dragged out of bed, then he dropped his waffle in the driveway (five second rule applied), and he could think of at least three places he’d rather be than here: Candyland (one can dream), Popsicle Island (one can aspire), and McDonalds (one can get fat.)

Okay then, she says. (Rude little bastard, she thinks.)

We start talking about pap smears. But it’s hard to concentrate when “I’ve been workin’ on the railroad” is blaring from the phone in Max’s hand. It’s good news though: no need for this always pleasant procedure today. (The rules have changed: one every three years. Keep your pants on.) Great – Max doesn’t need to see from whence he came. I will traumatize him in other ways.

Dinah won’t you blow, Dinah won’t you blow…

Okay, it’s time to check Max’s ears.

Sit up on the table with Max in your arms, she instructs me.

I grab Max and jump up on the table. He starts to fret, sensing trouble. TG ain’t no fool.

Brute force would have to be employed. I know how this works, but she reminds me anyways: Hold his legs between yours, pin his arms with one of yours, and use your other arm to hold his head straight so I can check his ears. 

I start to assume the position. But Max is flailing, resisting arrest. It’s like an episode of COPS up in here.

Now don’t get me wrong; he is a good boy who doesn’t randomly hit or bite. But when physically threatened, he is overtaken by a sheer animal urge to survive. As myself and the good doctor are trying to restrain him, he grabs her stethoscope, pulls her toward him, smacks her in the face and kicks her in the mammaries. I am not sure if it all happened exactly like that, but I did see the stetho-snatch and a flurry of body contact. Shit went down.

But we stay the course. She gets a look in both ears and we’re done. Phew.

I release the thrasher. He goes toward the door to sob while I wring the sweat out of my face.

How could you do that to me? His leaky eyes beseech me.

The doctor is on the other side of the room, also recovering from her assault.

Does he hit at home like that? Does he hit the other kids at daycare?

No, and no. Unless someone is trying to get up in his bid’ness, yo.

You need to get that under control.


For shame.

I guess this is normal for toddlers? Say yes, say yes, say yes.

Not quite like that.

She hates us. Max is Satan and I am Satan’s cloven-hooved mother.

Oh and by the way, his ear infection is still raging. He’ll need more antibiotics.

That should take care of the ears. As for the forked tail, you’re on your own, she says with her eyes.