Abbie's Best 12-Month Physical Ever
When I took Abbie in for her 12-month physical, the nurses swooned over her cuteness. I didn’t think that made a whole lot of sense considering these are pediatric nurses who see nothing but babies all day, and, while Abbie may be extraordinarily cute, I’d say she’s only in the 90th percentile for baby cuteness, 95th tops. I would think their reaction would be more along the lines of “Hey, another patient. Just wait in room #3. Hey, Olga. Did you see Desperate Housewives?” Instead they came in gushing about how sorry they were that they would have to give her four nasty shots today. I explained that it’s okay since she’s been extremely cranky so far today despite her deceptively calm current demeanor, and that made everything better. No one likes to make a happy child cry, but making a crying child cry a much more is acceptable, like making the boyfriend/husband pick up tampons is acceptable as long as he’s going to be at the store anyway.
First the nurse took her vitals. Sure enough, as soon as I laid Abbie on the exam table for her probing, she began screaming. This made obtaining her vital much more challenging, but at least it planted a small desire for revenge in her for when the time for shots came. Abbie is 29 3/4 inches tall, and weighs 22 pounds. I’m not so sure about the accuracy of that weight, though, since we used the big person scale on which Abbie stood properly for approximately .000000001 seconds. We then ran down a list of Things Your Child Should Be Doing at This Age If You Want to Call Yourself a Good Parent. “Points?” Check, though she doesn’t always seem to point directly at whatever interests her. “Pinches? Cruises? Walks?” Check, check, check, though she’s not much of a cruiser. “Says 1-3 word plus mama and dada?” No, but I hardly think it’s fair to check her language skills when the grammar displayed on this checklist is so obviously inadequate. “Understands ‘Give it to me?’” That’s not fair, I’ve never said that to her in her life. “Appears to hear and see well?” At least we can salvage those two.
The nurse left us, and I proceeded to calm down Abbie with a rigorous routine of reading and singing. Just about the time the whimpering stopped, in came a young man who identified himself as the student doctor. Unlike the nurses who wanted nothing more than to coddle Abbie, this guy was obviously very uncomfortable around young children.* Back on the table she went for more probing, and back came the screams. Wanting to quickly end the horrible screeches piercing his brain soon, he started moving as swiftly as possible, which is an obvious mistake since nothing makes a baby scream harder than letting her know that you don’t want to be here either. That just gives her hope that, with a strategically timed series of shrieks and kicks, she can make you stop whatever you’re reluctantly doing. To his credit, the student doctor soldiered through the rest of the check-up, including a peek inside her ears so brief that it couldn’t have accomplished much more than verifying that she does indeed have ears. We then ran down the list of Things Your Child Should Be Doing at This Age If You Want to Call Yourself a Good Parent again, and he also fretted over the lack of talking. We also ran down a list of Things You Should Be Doing for Your Child to Maintain Any Semblance of Competent Parenting, which led to the following communication-impaired exchanges:
Dr: She’ll start showing increased (mumble)ependence.
Me: … Did you say dependence or independence?
Dr: (mumble)ependence
Me: So she’ll be even clingier?
Dr: What? No, she’ll start wandering off on her own.
Me: Oh, independence.
Also…
Dr: What are you giving her for milk?
Me: Formula.
Dr: What do you give it to her in?
Me: A sippy cup.
Dr: All right, you’ll want to move her off of that by 15 months.
Me: (Startled and a little frightened) I should make her start using a regular cup?
Dr: No, you’ll want to switch her from formula to milk.
Eventually the student doctor left, and I returned to calming Abbie back down. The regular doctor came in shortly. We had a quality discussion about Abbie’s current non-talking status. He said his own child never spoke until 15 months, and it’s nothing to worry about since many late-talkers progress normally and some even go on to graduate from middle school. We also discussed the pros and cons of using a Next Step formula instead of milk. Near as I could tell the pros centered around the fact that I could stay brand loyal, while the cons revolved around me being a moron for wasting money on it since milk costs a third as much at most.
Finally came the main event, the reason for coming, the, if you will, raison d’etre (literally translated, “the four shots”). At first the nurse was apprehensive since Abbie was still in cute mode. As soon as I laid her on the exam table, though, she screamed loud and hard. This made administering shots much easier since there was no discernable change in her behavior while being injected. The four shots pierced her quickly, and we soon left, with me comforting her all the way.
“Oh, you’ve been crying,” remarked a woman on the elevator as we left.
“Yeah, she got her shots today,” I explained.
“That’s too bad, sweetie,” she said before turning to her companion. “Hey, Betty. Did you see Desperate Housewives?”
* Ellie later explained that he wants to be a surgeon, which is good because he already has the necessary people skills.
First the nurse took her vitals. Sure enough, as soon as I laid Abbie on the exam table for her probing, she began screaming. This made obtaining her vital much more challenging, but at least it planted a small desire for revenge in her for when the time for shots came. Abbie is 29 3/4 inches tall, and weighs 22 pounds. I’m not so sure about the accuracy of that weight, though, since we used the big person scale on which Abbie stood properly for approximately .000000001 seconds. We then ran down a list of Things Your Child Should Be Doing at This Age If You Want to Call Yourself a Good Parent. “Points?” Check, though she doesn’t always seem to point directly at whatever interests her. “Pinches? Cruises? Walks?” Check, check, check, though she’s not much of a cruiser. “Says 1-3 word plus mama and dada?” No, but I hardly think it’s fair to check her language skills when the grammar displayed on this checklist is so obviously inadequate. “Understands ‘Give it to me?’” That’s not fair, I’ve never said that to her in her life. “Appears to hear and see well?” At least we can salvage those two.
The nurse left us, and I proceeded to calm down Abbie with a rigorous routine of reading and singing. Just about the time the whimpering stopped, in came a young man who identified himself as the student doctor. Unlike the nurses who wanted nothing more than to coddle Abbie, this guy was obviously very uncomfortable around young children.* Back on the table she went for more probing, and back came the screams. Wanting to quickly end the horrible screeches piercing his brain soon, he started moving as swiftly as possible, which is an obvious mistake since nothing makes a baby scream harder than letting her know that you don’t want to be here either. That just gives her hope that, with a strategically timed series of shrieks and kicks, she can make you stop whatever you’re reluctantly doing. To his credit, the student doctor soldiered through the rest of the check-up, including a peek inside her ears so brief that it couldn’t have accomplished much more than verifying that she does indeed have ears. We then ran down the list of Things Your Child Should Be Doing at This Age If You Want to Call Yourself a Good Parent again, and he also fretted over the lack of talking. We also ran down a list of Things You Should Be Doing for Your Child to Maintain Any Semblance of Competent Parenting, which led to the following communication-impaired exchanges:
Dr: She’ll start showing increased (mumble)ependence.
Me: … Did you say dependence or independence?
Dr: (mumble)ependence
Me: So she’ll be even clingier?
Dr: What? No, she’ll start wandering off on her own.
Me: Oh, independence.
Also…
Dr: What are you giving her for milk?
Me: Formula.
Dr: What do you give it to her in?
Me: A sippy cup.
Dr: All right, you’ll want to move her off of that by 15 months.
Me: (Startled and a little frightened) I should make her start using a regular cup?
Dr: No, you’ll want to switch her from formula to milk.
Eventually the student doctor left, and I returned to calming Abbie back down. The regular doctor came in shortly. We had a quality discussion about Abbie’s current non-talking status. He said his own child never spoke until 15 months, and it’s nothing to worry about since many late-talkers progress normally and some even go on to graduate from middle school. We also discussed the pros and cons of using a Next Step formula instead of milk. Near as I could tell the pros centered around the fact that I could stay brand loyal, while the cons revolved around me being a moron for wasting money on it since milk costs a third as much at most.
Finally came the main event, the reason for coming, the, if you will, raison d’etre (literally translated, “the four shots”). At first the nurse was apprehensive since Abbie was still in cute mode. As soon as I laid her on the exam table, though, she screamed loud and hard. This made administering shots much easier since there was no discernable change in her behavior while being injected. The four shots pierced her quickly, and we soon left, with me comforting her all the way.
“Oh, you’ve been crying,” remarked a woman on the elevator as we left.
“Yeah, she got her shots today,” I explained.
“That’s too bad, sweetie,” she said before turning to her companion. “Hey, Betty. Did you see Desperate Housewives?”
* Ellie later explained that he wants to be a surgeon, which is good because he already has the necessary people skills.
posted by Matt at
9:24 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home