At some point after the birth* of our second child, my husband and I, like all good, responsible (yet reluctant) adults, decided to apply for additional life insurance. You know, because as awful as it is to contemplate, we are mature and grounded in reality enough to know that bad things happen. Also, we watch a lot of movies, so we realized it was essential to make sure that the other person would be provided for in case one of us got hit by a runaway bus (thank you, Keanu) or train (Denzel) or something more suburban, like a rogue lawnmower (STEVEN KING GAAAAH).
Anyway, when you apply for life insurance, you are sometimes given the choice of 1) going some place for some health screening thingies, including blood tests, or 2) having someone come to your house and do them. As I am neither a fan of A) going places or B) doing things, I opted for the in-home screening.
Of course, I forgot the part where an “in-home screening” actually takes place, uh, in your home. Where your children are. And all their … things and mess and stuff. And your yapping dog who thinks anyone setting foot on the premises must be yapped at to the point of deafness.
The guy who showed up for my in-home screening was perhaps the crankiest person I have ever met. His mood did not improve once he realized I had … oh, the horror, CHILDREN. Small ones. Sticky ones. Smartalecky ones who greeted him at the door with cries of “GRANDPA!”
He was there to stick needles in ME and take blood from ME and I basically spent the entire visit attempting to put HIM at ease with reassurances that my children were not going to touch him or sneeze on him or otherwise infect him.**
They were, however, going to beg to take turns standing on the little scale he’d brought. And show him this toy! And this toy! And look, this is Lightning McQueen and he’s a famous race car and Mater and also tractors!
“So, are you done having children?” he asked as he took my blood pressure.
“Um, we aren’t sure yet,” I said uneasily, worried that he might take that response and mark it down on some form as a clear sign of MENTAL INSTABILITY, SHOULD BE COMMITTED NOT INSURED.
“Hrrmmph,” he responded.
I don’t expect everyone to love my children, of course. I mean, they ARE sticky. They ARE sometimes nothing more than walking germ containers.
I also don’t expect everyone to love my dog, either, which is why I’d shut her little 8-pound yappy self in the bathroom when Mr. Bloodletting arrived. She’s small and harmless, but I’ve come to accept that she STILL scares the crap out of non-dog-people. I don’t take it personally or try to tell people they’re being ridiculous because she’s the size of a loaf of bread and just as ferocious, so I tried to take this guy’s obvious child-terror in similar stride.
We were just about finished with all the health business when suddenly … DOG. One of the kids had let her out of the bathroom and ooooooooohhhhh lawdy she was mad. She came barreling into the room, nine kinds of hysterical at being denied the chance to defend my honor against this intruder, and …
Mr. Bloodletting dropped to his knees and started talking in baby talk and had my dog up in his arms in about 15 seconds flat. He declared her to be the cutest little thing he’d seen all day schmoopsie poopsie poo. Awww.
And that was that. I was later approved for our additional policy, which was good, because if I ever had to go through an in-home screening again, I’m not sure the kids would appreciate being locked in the bathroom instead of the dog.
*Toddlerhood totally still qualifies for the “at some point” criteria.