Yesterday morning, Mike and I took Nathan to his yearly check-up. We were running late and when I had called the receptionist to let her know we were literally pulling into the garage, she said, “Well, you should be here right now getting ready for the doctor.” Of course this was bull because whenever we check in, it’s another fifteen minute wait. But thanks anyway God’s Grandma for the unnecessary chiding!
I’m a nervous person anyway and the tardiness that morning threw me off. In addition, Nathan turned four in May so we were five minutes plus FOUR MONTHS behind schedule. Something about having another baby and a mother who stays in your house for almost six months and makes you go to a different grocery store because the salmon necks are better kind of screws up your sense of time.
After Nathan had a simple eye test, we retreated into the room to wait. This is the part of the visit that I really hate. I never know how long I will be in there. If it’s a visit with TJ, then I’m usually rocking him or nursing him. And if it’s with Nathan, I’m spending all that time to keep him from opening drawers or from having a complete meltdown before the doctor walks in. I’m usually wearing something thick and layered so by the time the doctor knocks and opens the door, I’m mopping up the sweat on my brow with my sleeve. Not awkward at all!
Nathan’s pediatrician went through a battery of simple tests–hopping on one leg, touching his toes–then began asking us questions. “How is he sleeping?” He asked.
“Oh he sleeps whenever he crashes out!” Mike answered. “Sometimes 11 at night!”
“What time does he wake up?”
“Um, seven?” I replied sheepishly.
“Eleven to seven isn’t that much time.” His doctor said with a slight frown.
“Yeah,” I said. “But he sleeps a lot at the daycare!”
It wasn’t going very well because of MY HUSBAND. If there were a table, I would kick him underneath it. If there were a UFC cage, I WOULD DROPKICK HIM. I was more mad at myself for not telling Mike the game plan which is: DO NOT TELL THE TRUTH. I know the truth is necessary if there’s a real medical concern, like Nathan’s speech delay or his problems with fine motor skills, but do not tell THE MAN WHO HAS A DIRECT LINE TO CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES that we let him sleep whenever! Eat whatever! Don’t worry doctor, he gets read to at night! We leave the closed-captioning on the TV!
Then Nathan broke into the conversation and announced, “Um? Doctor? It’s my birthday! Did you bring me a present!” And all the sweating and fuming at my husband subsided because there was my son, the brilliant little boy who somehow knew that the one person in the room who could buy him the stupid Thomas Battery-Operated Track Rider Train Engine is the one who went to medical school. Nathan’s out of luck with his dad and especially out of luck with me since all I have is four years of college and two minutes filling out the “Which Disney Princess Are you?” quiz. Answer: Pokeahotass. Typo! Keeping it!