It's the end of another day. A day without a melt-down over division or handwriting. A day without writing multiple copies of Colossians 3:23 for Mama. Let's all take a moment and give thanks, shall we?
In fact, in a total reversal of yesterday's modus operandi, Gunnar charmed both the doctor and nurse at our visit this afternoon. I think the nurse actually used the word gentleman. And the doctor - well now there's a man who knows how to compliment a kid. As Gunnar answered his questions and described his complaint calmly and specifically, the doctor raised an eyebrow and asked, "How old are you, anyway?"
Gunnar gave me a sideways look. (Doesn't the doctor know how old I am?) "Nine."
"Well, you talk like you're fifteen!"
Now if we can just carry that over to Monday mornings...
Oh, and why were we at the doctor's office?
That was the official diagnosis, and what I had suspected all along. Gunnar has been complaining of pain in the back of his heels, on and off since before Christmas. Not too bad. He walks just fine. He told the doctor it felt like there was a bruise, but there was nothing there. Tender. Apparently he is growing faster than his tendons. Stretch them gently, ice them when they hurt, and he'll grow out of it.
I think he kind of liked being told it was growing pains.