Showdown at the O.K. Exam Room

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Evie had another "Well Baby" doctor's visit yesterday. This is when they take a perfectly healthy, happy child and poke, prod and stick them with needles until they're a crying, slobbering mess.

And I can always tell when Evie's appointments are coming up. I don't even need to write them down anymore, it's such a reliable system.

You see, in the week or so before Evie is to see her pediatrician, she goes by the following schedule:

Day 1: Pulls a large, heavy object from the table/bookshelf down....onto her face.

Day 2: Walks into the corner of an open drawer...with her face.

Day 3: Tries running from Mommy and falls into the wall...face first.

Day 4: Falls in the Target parking lot (Mommy wasn't holding her hand tightly enough) and lands hard on the asphalt...on her face.

Day 5: Trips over some curbing in the backyard...and lands on her bare knees (they were feeling neglected.)

Day 6: Walks into the doctor's office looking like she's been in a prize fight...and lost.

I don't know if this is well-known information, but Pediatricians are one of the major reporters of child abuse/neglect in America.

They have CPS on speed dial.

And God bless them for that! What incredible advocates they are for these helpless children. But it does make us non-abusive parents with accident-prone kids just a little bit nervous.

And my daughter's Pediatrician notices everything. It's the part of her neurotic personality that makes me love her so much.

She's a Safety Nazi.

Which makes a "Safety Nut" look like Evel Knievel.

She's gotten me so afraid of choking hazards that I actually cut Evie's Cheerios in half. She makes me want to keep the kids in a rear-facing car seat until they hit puberty. And now I'm so paranoid about sun damage, my children look like Albinos.

But you know what? I love it. I'm a better-safe-than-sorry kind of person. To me, there's nothing more important than keeping my kids safe...even if it makes me look like a freak to some people (I'm sure Tara's on the floor convulsing right now).

I love Dr. Hall.

But she does like to test me.

When Luke was around six months old, she asked me if I had been giving him juice. I said no, of course...the thought hadn't really occurred to me yet.

She nodded in approval and proceeded to inform me of the many evils of "liquid sugar."

I wondered what she would have said if I had responded with a yes...

Since then, she asks me at every visit (with each child), in a completely neutral voice.

"Are you giving her any juice?"

She never makes eye contact when she asks this, probably afraid of giving away the answer with her expression of disdain. Instead, she looks down at the chart and poises her pen a mere centimeter above the paper.

She's waiting for my answer. Waiting for me to say the wrong thing so she can scribble down my parental faults in permanent ink.

"Absolutely not. I hate the stuff."

I blurt it out quickly, hoping she doesn't notice the catch in my voice or the beads of sweat on my forehead.

"Good."

I release a breath and wait for the room to stop spinning. The test has been passed and the next one won't be for another three months. I just hope she tells me when I'm allowed to give the poor kids juice....at this rate, their college graduation seems too soon.

Now, I hope I haven't given you the wrong impression here. My Pediatrician is a kind, intelligent and funny woman. She truly cares about the well-being of my children.

And even though normal people would probably be put off by that kind of pressure, Dr. Hall is not the one that bothers me.

Her assistant is.

I'm sure some of you remember Evie's twelve month visit. The trauma is still fresh in my mind.

This time wasn't any better. Once again, she wanted to poke my daughter in her arms. At first, she acted like they HAD to go there. But when I protested, she said that it would hurt less since Evie was walking now and would be bothered more by a shot in her leg.

I looked at the long needles, then I looked at Evie's scrawny little arms.

"I'd really like it to go in her legs."

"Oh, sure...no problem."

I could tell she was disappointed, though. She was probably looking forward to jabbing a humerus or two, just for kicks.

The leg shots went smoothly, no thanks to her. But the process was drawn out much longer than necessary.

I closed my eyes and kissed Evie's forehead as she tensed in pain. Several moments later, I hear...

"Good job, Sweetie."

I look up thinking it's over.

No such luck.

The woman is sloooowly picking up the second needle. As if letting Evie calm down from the first jab will somehow make the next one less painful.

JUST GET ON WITH IT!!!

The good news is that this will be the last time I have to lay eyes on this incompetent woman. You see, she's very, very pregnant.

Due in June, as I found out during some forced pleasantries.

By the time Evie's due for another visit, this assistant-from-you-know-where will be gone, gone, GONE! And since my doctor is moving to a new office this month, I'm banking on the reasonable assumption that the needle-happy freako will be assigned elsewhere when her maternity leave is up.

I think I'm looking forward to the birth of her baby more than she is.

I'm not normally this nasty...really, I'm not. This woman is probably a perfectly nice human being. We might even be friends under normal circumstances.

But don't ever, ever mess with my baby girl.

I've got a mama bear in me that would make most people cower in fear.



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