tales of a toto

There are some moments as a nurse where you just shake your head and wonder why on earth anyone would want to do anything else. Today was one of them.

Bush is two years old. His mocha features are framed by a puff of curly hair that smells faintly of earth and herbs. He's not terribly afraid of white people, and stickers work well as bribes for swallowing medicines. In short, we're pretty good friends.

Or so I thought.

Our peaceful relationship ended about halfway through my shift today when I realized that I had to change his bandage. Bush had surgery on a very delicate area of his small body, and men, even two-year old men, are fiercely protective of this particular part. My laughing friend turned into a screaming banshee, requiring three grown adults to hold him down as I delicately took scissors to what seemed like a cast of gauze and tape wrapped around his manly bits. Kevin, the nurse I was training, had poor Bush on lockdown and I was starting to make pretty good progress with the bandage removal when Bush's screams suddenly formed themselves into words.

Hey man! Leave it! Mah toto! Don' cut it! Don' cut mah toto! Mah toto!

At which point I had to put down the scissors so Kevin and I could dissolve into laughter. If you've never looked into a two-year old's eyes and soothingly said I won' cut your toto. It alright, man. You alright. I won' cut it, then I submit that you are missing out on the true fullness of life.