procedure of giving the antibiotic to him using a dropper.
As the pharmacist demonstrated the amount I needed to give him,
Addison whipped my hair over my eyes back and forward with his small hands like wind shield wipers and then as I pulled the hair back off of my face, he proceeded to say my name 7 times in a row. "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM! MOM!"
As I looked up, the pharmacist was giving me "the teacher" look.
You know the one.
The one when you have been caught not paying attention to the lecture.
So she said firmly while holding out the dropper to me,
"Maam, I am going to need you to show me the amount of medicine you need to give your son, so that I know you heard me correctly."
"Fill it up to the 10 ml line twice and then to the l.5 ml line once,"
I rattled off, batting his small hands away from my face.
"Oh. Very good," she said, seeming surprised that I was, in fact, listening.
Clearly, she didn't know that I am used to deciphering the intermingled converstations of three boys talking at once, while doing dishes, starting dinner and chatting with my sisters on speaker phone.
Never underestimate the cognitive abilities of a harried mother.
We may look tired and scattered but we're always tracking.
We've got eyes in the backs of our heads, remember?