A Memoir on Waiting Rooms, Big Questions, and Social Confidence
Setting: April 2026
I picked Holden up early from school the other day for a doctor’s appointment. By the end of it, I was pretty sure he'd had a great time.
When he got in the car, my CarPlay queued up "I’m Just a Kid" by Simple Plan, one of my middle school anthems from 2002.
Before I could even say anything, he belted out, “I’M JUST A KID AND LIFE IS A NIGHTMARE!”
I just stared at him. “How do you know this song?”
He shrugged. “YouTube.”
Of course. Where all generational gaps go to die.
By the time we got to the doctor’s office, he had fully assumed his usual role: unofficial mayor of wherever we are. He greeted the receptionists and was immediately recognized by a medical assistant who remembered him from last time.
We got into the exam room, and he was already scanning for conversation opportunities. As soon as the nurse walked in, he got to work.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he assured her while she checked his blood pressure.
A few seconds later, just in case she needed an update:
“It still doesn’t hurt.”
Then, pointing to the numbers, he asked, “Does anyone ever get to 300?” She said yes. He nodded thoughtfully. “I think I might get there someday.”
We gently suggested that was not a goal.
As she left, she said the doctor would be in soon.
“Is he a boy?” Holden asked, despite the fact that she had referred to the doctor as he approximately three seconds earlier. Despite the fact that he's had the same doctor since birth. Despite the fact that he asked the same exact question last time.
Finally, the doctor walked in, and within seconds, Holden was running the conversation.
“Do I need a shot?”
“Do I need an x-ray?”
Then, without hesitation: “Do you ever have adult patients who… have accidents?”
The doctor, to his credit, took this very seriously and launched into a full explanation.
I sat there quietly observing as my seven-year-old conducted what felt like a one-on-one interview. Every question answered. No deferring to me. No hesitation. Just confidence.
When it was time to go, he skipped out of the room, calling out goodbyes to anyone within range and wishing them all a good day like he worked there.
In the car, he leaned back, satisfied. “That was a great appointment.” Then, after a beat: “Ugh. I forgot to ask him how to lose pounds.”
We stopped at McDonald’s after, where he confidently informed them they had shorted him two nuggets, requested extra dipping sauce, and asked a man nearby if he was in line before stepping up.
No fear. No second-guessing. Just… forward motion.
Honestly, I think the doctor answered all of his questions.
Mine are still pending.
Like how he walks into every room assuming people will like him.
Or how he never seems worried about saying the wrong thing.
Or how he became the most confident person in our family.
I hope the world never talks him out of it.
This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.
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