My husband, the kids and I recently ate dinner at a local tavern called, The Winking Lizard. This restaurant is well-known for its buttery popcorn that you serve up yourself out of a giant popper (which the kids love), and also for its World Beer Tour (which the adults enjoy).

They also have a very large, glass-enclosed area where they house a live lizard. Not some pansy gecko, but a big creature the size of a tree limb. Needless to say, my six year old son was quite interested in it.

But I didn’t quite grasp his excitement, because I didn’t see it coming when he came back to the table after using the restroom, and loudly announced to our table and to a roomful of patrons, “Hey Dad! I just went to the bathroom and I saw the big lizard!”

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I work at my children’s school as a second grade teacher’s aide. I took the job to earn a little money, but another benefit is being near my six year old son. He is in kindergarten and could function without me there, but there are still things I help him with because the school allows it.

My son gets sick a lot, sometimes with weird bacterial infections and one of those was antibiotic resistant. It seems it takes longer courses of more potent drugs to make his illnesses go away, so in order to keep him as healthy as possible we take some precautions.

He is the only one in his class who keeps hand sanitizer in his cubby, he takes a bottle of water to school instead of using the drinking fountain, and I help him when he has to go to the bathroom.

My son is the size of a three year old, which means that when he has to use the facilities it entails climbing and clambering all over said facilities. Being that elementary school children aren’t the most hygienic, it’s much better for me to hoist him on the toilet in the nurse’s office and make sure he gets a proper hand washing because he can barely reach the sink.

Yesterday, I was leading a group of students downstairs when we ran into my boy in the hallway where he announced to the whole lot of us, “I need to go poop!”

I said, “Well I can’t take you right now, because I can’t leave these students. You’ll have to go by yourself.”

Just then, I looked up and saw the school nurse and asked her if she would help him, which she was happy to do.

After school, we were driving home and I asked him, “Hey, did Mrs. C help you in the bathroom?”

He said, “Yes.”

Knowing he had pooped, I wondered if he had been bold enough to ask her to wipe him, so I further questioned, “Did she just help you wash your hands? What did you ask her to do?”

But instead I found he was bold in a totally guy kind of way when he replied, “I asked her to get me a book.”

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My son is currently on his fourth round of antibiotics since September. He has chronic sinus infections, and this latest one has been dragging on for about a month.

As most of you know, antibiotics kill bacteria. Lots of bacteria. Even the good stuff. This is why people who take antibiotics often get what my Dad refers to as a case of the thin dirties.

To combat diarrhea, I give my son some very pricey probiotics. I break open a capsule and pour 5 billion CFU’s of powdery acidophilus and rahmnosus goodness into some applesauce, and it easily goes down the hatch.

For those of you who don’t speak nature, acidophilus and rahmnosus are live cultures that help to restore balance to the intestines. They are good bacteria, and ingesting them allows my son to walk around with regular underwear on, instead of plastic pants.

This morning, I was opening a capsule when he asked me what it was. I told him that his antibiotic is killing the bad bugs and the good ones, and the probiotics put the good bugs back in.

A little while later, I heard him coughing in another room. After he stopped hacking, he came in and told me he didn’t need the antibiotic anymore.

I said, “Yes, you do. You’re not better yet.”

He insisted, “No, I don’t need it!” Then he opened a tissue, showed me a chunk of something green and said, “See? I can spit the bad bugs out.”

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Yesterday afternoon, I took my sick son to an urgent care where he was seen by a kind and capable nurse practitioner. She quickly assessed him and wrote a prescription before sending us on our way. I kind of wanted to tell her this story. Kind of…

When our daughter was born ten weeks early via emergency c-section, my husband and I got a crash course in medical terminology. We learned all about NG-tubes, picc lines, desats, brady’s and many more words I hope you boys and girls never need to know.

We spent hours in the intensive care unit each day and picked up invaluable information from the neonatologists and our child’s primary care nurse. For 35 days straight, we sat at our daughter’s isolette reading her chart, working the monitors, and reapplying electrodes. By the end of that journey we felt like medical professionals ourselves.

Our son was born premature a few years later, but because of his heart condition he was immediately transferred to a children’s hospital where they had equipment to better care for him.

It was déjà vu with a twist. We were thrown into a familiar situation, in unfamiliar surroundings. Yet, we figured we were ahead of the game. At the very least, we knew the lingo and could communicate with the staff.

Or, so I thought.

Because I’m sure the nurse practitioner who met my husband upon our son’s admission was quite surprised when she introduced herself, only to have him say, “We’d like a real nurse, not one who’s just practicing.”

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