It's Just A Delusion

As we sat in the waiting room, he eyed the blisters like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes.

“Judging by the pattern, it almost appears as if something was spilled on the baby,” J-Fed observed aloud.

“J-Fed, nothing was spilled on the baby,” I assured the chump. Ebola? Now that’s a possibility.

“Kiki, it looks like she was burned with something hot. Are you sure they couldn’t have spilled coffee or something on her?” he said narrowing his eyes. Seriously, if I’d had something hard, I would have smacked him with it. My hand just wouldn’t do the job.

“Are you kidding? They didn’t spill anything hot on her,” I said. But then House took it a step further…

“Did you?” he asked me in all seriousness. Oh. My. God. J-Fed, did you really just ask me if I burned the baby? Judging by the look of suspicion I knew he was serious. Did he expect me to start freaking out, shaking and babbling “mama burned baby. Mama burned baby” like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man?

I thought about spitting in his face. I thought about smacking him. For starters, I don’t drink anything hot. The extent of my beverage repertoire is water, Perrier and an occasional Coke. And while I may eat soup or something brothy on occasion, I usually don’t eat with her in my hand. But in the event I did, the likelihood of me spilling it down her leg only to perfectly blister in a pattern EXACTLY along her diaper line would make me the next David Blaine.

Instead, I turned it back on him.

“I didn’t spill anything on her. Did you?” I asked him wisely. Oh of course you didn’t because I’ve been the one taking care of her you jerk. Smack. Smack. If a speeding truck crashed through the wall of the doctor’s office at that moment and squished J-Fed as flat as a pancake in an instant, I likely would have stood up and handed the driver the entire contents of my purse, all of my jewelry and made him the beneficiary of my 401K.