Page 35 of Cluelessly Yours

At a little after ten in the morning, I hurry Grant through the main doors of the medical building where his orthopedic physician’s office is located and head toward the sign in the main lobby to figure out which floor his appointment is on.

Last Wednesday, we had a follow-up appointment with Dr. McCormick, who released Grant into the care of another orthopedic physician. This will be our first time meeting with Dr. Williams, but in typical Sammy fashion, after getting Seth to school and a last-minute “I have to poop” emergency from Grant, we’re running a few minutes behind.

Swiftly, I scroll my eyes through the list of physicians, trying to find Dr. Williams, but I only get halfway down the list when Grant shouts for me.

“Mom! Mom!”

When my kids start yelling, I pay attention. In the history of their rearing, I’ve found a snake in their bedroom, a lit sparkler in the toilet, and a set of scissors embedded in the mattress of one of their beds. When they’re quiet, they’re dangerous, but when they yell…I go running.

“Mom! Look at this!” Grant exclaims as he uses the weight of his casted arm to propel himself into a circle and just barely misses hitting an older gentleman walking past him.

My eyes practically pop out of my head as I rush forward to grab him by the shoulders and stop his momentum. “Buddy, you know you can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Remember what Dr. McCormick said? Your arm is still healing, and you need to be careful with it.” This past week proved that making sure a five-year-old boy rests his arm is far more challenging than one would think—and trust me, I thought it would be challenging. At this point, I’m just thankful he didn’t chew off his cast with his own teeth.

“But, Mom. I—”

“Grant.” I eye him in a way that says I’m not in the mood for bullshit today. It’s a universal maternal look all mothers learn by the time their child is a toddler, and I can personally vouch that it’s a crucial skill for survival.

“Ah, shucks,” he groans while I gently guide him over to the directory of physicians with me and resume my search for Dr. Williams.

Thankfully, the list is alphabetical, and I find the Ws pretty quickly.

Dr. Waters 304

Dr. Weller 215

Dr. Williams 402

“Okay, buddy, looks like we need to go to—”

“Mom! Noah is here!” Grant yells at the top of his lungs and runs full sprint past me before I can stop him.

In a matter of seconds, he’s barreling into a smiling, scrub-wearing Noah and is being lifted up and off the floor and into his arms quicker than I can even register what’s happening.

“Hey, little man,” Noah greets and sets Grant back to his feet. “How’s the arm?”

“Pretty good. Let me show you this cool trick I can—”

Quick as a whip, I close the distance between myself and my wild child and grip both of his shoulders with two strong mom hands.

“Ah, ah,” I refute. “I don’t think so.”

Grant grumbles, and I meet Noah’s eyes on a sigh. “He’s got all sorts of doctor-unapproved tricks this morning. Not one of them has been a good idea.”

“The struggles of having a five-year-old in a cast are real?”

“Oh, no big deal. Something akin to wrangling a great white with my bare hands and then waving my chummed-up arm at its mouth for an hour or so without getting maimed.”

For the last week, I’ve managed to ignore the two man-elephants in the room and the complicated mix of feelings I have about men in general. But Noah’s handsome grin and throaty chuckle have the power to transport me back in time. Back to his comforting arms and kissable lips and noticeably jealous attitude toward Gavin.

Otherwise known as the absolute last place I need to be.

Steeling myself against the power of his warm eyes and soft smile, I regain my equilibrium and focus on the priority at hand—Grant’s appointment.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but we’re already running about five minutes late for his follow-up appointment with Dr. Williams. We have to get going before they mark us as a no-show and cancel.”

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