Ours Has Pictures of American Eskimo Dogs
I took Abbie to the doctor yesterday. This was for that mystery appointment that popped up on my calendar.
I’ve never been an organized person. This trait goes back to my childhood when my toy organization system involved spreading them across my bedroom floor so I could easily spot things like my Lite-Brite, or my Mr. T card game.
In high school when I started taking responsibility for my schedule, I tracked them in my head. “Band practice is Wednesday after school, the next band trip is Saturday, and I work Thursday and Saturday night … uh oh.” This system worked well if for no other reason than I had plenty of “friends” who were always eager to take shifts from me.
When I entered the work force, I still kept track of appointments in my head. It was pretty easy when every weekday had “8:00am: Show up for work. 4:30pm: Leave work. 7:00pm: Check want ads for a way out of this rut. 7:10pm: Throw newspaper down in disgust. 7:15pm: Mint chocolate chip ice cream makes everything better.”
Now I’m a parent responsible for myself, three children with diverging medical needs, a dog that finds something harmful to eat at least once a week, and two cats that throw up daily. I’m always making appointments to run somebody or something somewhere for some potentially life-saving reason, and I need to make sure that these appointments don’t conflict with each other, or our library time, or Abbie’s regular speech therapy, or Abbie’s other regular speech therapy.
So I’ve learned to use a calendar. Before children, a calendar was something to hang on the wall, enjoy its pretty pictures, and flip the page as soon as I realized it’s the tenth of the month. I might write an appointment on there, but only if I didn’t have to bother turning to a different month to do it. Otherwise, they’ll send me a reminder card when it’s time.
After the boys were born, I quickly discovered the necessity of writing down appointments, not just to avoid scheduling conflicts, but also to remind us in our sleep-deprived state that we need to be somewhere with someone. When I made an appointment, I’d immediately write it on the calendar as a reminder.
Yesterday’s date said “Abbie, doctor, 9:10am.” The only problem was I didn’t write the reason for the visit, and all the hours of missed sleep between then and now purged the reason from memory. In fact, I didn’t even remember making the appointment, which gave me quite a surprise when I flipped the calendar page and saw that I’d be taking Abbie to the doctor in four days.
We knew Abbie had to go in for a check-up of some sort, but we couldn’t figure out why. They don’t usually schedule 30-month check-ups. She should be up to date on her shots. When the receptionist asked for the reason of our visit, I wasn’t looking forward to telling her “I was hoping you could tell us.”
We snuck through the check-in process, and let the nurses figure out the reason for the visit. The winning answer: Hepatitis vaccine booster shot. If I’d known Abbie was going to be sick with a cold at the time, I never would have scheduled her for a shot.
I’ve never been an organized person. This trait goes back to my childhood when my toy organization system involved spreading them across my bedroom floor so I could easily spot things like my Lite-Brite, or my Mr. T card game.
In high school when I started taking responsibility for my schedule, I tracked them in my head. “Band practice is Wednesday after school, the next band trip is Saturday, and I work Thursday and Saturday night … uh oh.” This system worked well if for no other reason than I had plenty of “friends” who were always eager to take shifts from me.
When I entered the work force, I still kept track of appointments in my head. It was pretty easy when every weekday had “8:00am: Show up for work. 4:30pm: Leave work. 7:00pm: Check want ads for a way out of this rut. 7:10pm: Throw newspaper down in disgust. 7:15pm: Mint chocolate chip ice cream makes everything better.”
Now I’m a parent responsible for myself, three children with diverging medical needs, a dog that finds something harmful to eat at least once a week, and two cats that throw up daily. I’m always making appointments to run somebody or something somewhere for some potentially life-saving reason, and I need to make sure that these appointments don’t conflict with each other, or our library time, or Abbie’s regular speech therapy, or Abbie’s other regular speech therapy.
So I’ve learned to use a calendar. Before children, a calendar was something to hang on the wall, enjoy its pretty pictures, and flip the page as soon as I realized it’s the tenth of the month. I might write an appointment on there, but only if I didn’t have to bother turning to a different month to do it. Otherwise, they’ll send me a reminder card when it’s time.
After the boys were born, I quickly discovered the necessity of writing down appointments, not just to avoid scheduling conflicts, but also to remind us in our sleep-deprived state that we need to be somewhere with someone. When I made an appointment, I’d immediately write it on the calendar as a reminder.
Yesterday’s date said “Abbie, doctor, 9:10am.” The only problem was I didn’t write the reason for the visit, and all the hours of missed sleep between then and now purged the reason from memory. In fact, I didn’t even remember making the appointment, which gave me quite a surprise when I flipped the calendar page and saw that I’d be taking Abbie to the doctor in four days.
We knew Abbie had to go in for a check-up of some sort, but we couldn’t figure out why. They don’t usually schedule 30-month check-ups. She should be up to date on her shots. When the receptionist asked for the reason of our visit, I wasn’t looking forward to telling her “I was hoping you could tell us.”
We snuck through the check-in process, and let the nurses figure out the reason for the visit. The winning answer: Hepatitis vaccine booster shot. If I’d known Abbie was going to be sick with a cold at the time, I never would have scheduled her for a shot.
posted by Matt at
11:42 PM
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