What do you get when you cross a half naked baby, a five year old and a doctor's waiting room? You lose your freakin' mind! I realize that joke did not make sense but neither does waiting like a million hours in an exam room, with small children, to see the doctor.
It was Ana's 4 month check up today and her appointment was scheduled for 11am. I had to think hard about how this particular doctor's office ran. If I arrive early will it be first come, first served? Or will they refuse to acknowledge my presence until the clock strikes 11? I decided to take the middle ground approach, I arrived at 10:45. Turns out they are in the "1/2 hour after your appointment" camp. Didn't see that coming.
Finally we get into the exam room and wait...and wait...and wait some more. Now you'd like to think that if they're going to call you back into the exam room it should mean that the doctor is going to enter in the near future. Collin is constantly asking questions like, "where's the doctor?","what's taking so long?" and "can I play with the needles in this red trashcan?". While he's talking he's rolling on the floor, taking the doctor's stool on a spin across the room and using tongue depressors to do a walrus impression. I'd be willing to pay more than my co-pay if they would have a clown or magician on standby for such occasions.
Finally the doctor arrives looking shiny and fresh. I want her to at least appear haggard. You know, make-up running, panting, hair disheveled, all because she has rushed to get to us as soon as humanly possible. But no, I think she was finishing her coffee while googling herself.
She inspects Ana, kicks her tires and tells me that her head is too small. Is it shrinking? She says not to worry as long as she is where she should be developmentally. All I can picture is her growing up with a normal body and on her neck rests one of those shrunken heads you see in copies of National Geographic.
She also explains to me the importance of cleaning in all of her thigh fat folds and possibly using diaper cream in there if I find her chaffing. God, she does have my genes.
She tells me to bring her back next month to measure her head. Are there any exercises I can to do to bulk up her head? No. Compliments I can give her to make her head bigger? No. Any fruits or veggies that will help her head grow? No.
The nurse then enters to give the dreaded vaccine. She holds up the needle. I glance at Collin thinking he'd be nervous for her but I see a smile on his face. The smile says, "this should be a good show". He's kind to small animals so should I be concerned? Hmmmm. Anyway, Ana handles it like a trooper. Is there disappointment in his eyes? I don't look, I don't want to know.
For the rest of the day Ana is cranky. She gives that sad, exaggerated frown that breaks your heart but makes you laugh at the same time. She goes to bed early. I hang over her crib chanting quietly, "grow head, grow!". The next day all is right again until Collin comes into my room with one eye sealed shut with yellow crusties. He has pink eye. Are you kidding me?! It's off to the doctor's again.
It was Ana's 4 month check up today and her appointment was scheduled for 11am. I had to think hard about how this particular doctor's office ran. If I arrive early will it be first come, first served? Or will they refuse to acknowledge my presence until the clock strikes 11? I decided to take the middle ground approach, I arrived at 10:45. Turns out they are in the "1/2 hour after your appointment" camp. Didn't see that coming.
Finally we get into the exam room and wait...and wait...and wait some more. Now you'd like to think that if they're going to call you back into the exam room it should mean that the doctor is going to enter in the near future. Collin is constantly asking questions like, "where's the doctor?","what's taking so long?" and "can I play with the needles in this red trashcan?". While he's talking he's rolling on the floor, taking the doctor's stool on a spin across the room and using tongue depressors to do a walrus impression. I'd be willing to pay more than my co-pay if they would have a clown or magician on standby for such occasions.
Finally the doctor arrives looking shiny and fresh. I want her to at least appear haggard. You know, make-up running, panting, hair disheveled, all because she has rushed to get to us as soon as humanly possible. But no, I think she was finishing her coffee while googling herself.
She inspects Ana, kicks her tires and tells me that her head is too small. Is it shrinking? She says not to worry as long as she is where she should be developmentally. All I can picture is her growing up with a normal body and on her neck rests one of those shrunken heads you see in copies of National Geographic.
She also explains to me the importance of cleaning in all of her thigh fat folds and possibly using diaper cream in there if I find her chaffing. God, she does have my genes.
She tells me to bring her back next month to measure her head. Are there any exercises I can to do to bulk up her head? No. Compliments I can give her to make her head bigger? No. Any fruits or veggies that will help her head grow? No.
The nurse then enters to give the dreaded vaccine. She holds up the needle. I glance at Collin thinking he'd be nervous for her but I see a smile on his face. The smile says, "this should be a good show". He's kind to small animals so should I be concerned? Hmmmm. Anyway, Ana handles it like a trooper. Is there disappointment in his eyes? I don't look, I don't want to know.
For the rest of the day Ana is cranky. She gives that sad, exaggerated frown that breaks your heart but makes you laugh at the same time. She goes to bed early. I hang over her crib chanting quietly, "grow head, grow!". The next day all is right again until Collin comes into my room with one eye sealed shut with yellow crusties. He has pink eye. Are you kidding me?! It's off to the doctor's again.
