Doctor, Doctor
Sam had his 4-year check up today and it went OK. I didn't spend all week prepping him, consoling him, lying to him about his upcoming doctor's visit; I just mentioned casually last night that we would go to school late because we were going to see Dr. Susan first thing in the morning.
He started to sense something this morning and spent about 30 minutes whining and fretting about going. I conducted a fake examination of him, in hopes it would calm him down. But every few minutes he would say under his breath "But I don't WANT to go to the doctor."
I don't know how it happens that when you seem to have plenty of time - in this morning's example, we were all dressed, ready and waiting a full hour before we needed to leave - but the last 15 minutes is spent rushing and running and trying to make it out the door. In any case, 9:45 we're at the doctor.
For the most part he did great. He has 20/20 vision (despite his genetic disposition to near blindness). He's right on for height and weight. Ears, eyes, teeth all look great. No worries about dyslexia (yes, I've been worrying) or dandruff (that too) or bedwetting.
I know now how difficult it can be to get a 4-year-old to pee in a cup, not once but twice because you drop the nicely filled cup into the toilet.
But, just about the time that I'm telling the doctor how proud I am of Sam and his behavior as a big brother, he and Jake get into it. I mean really get into it. Pulling and pushing. Sam yelling "You are NOT my friend." Jake yelling "BRRYAAAA. TAAADOOOO."
At this point I felt like I was the one having the examination. I heard this low whisper, like a commentator during a golf tournament: "Alright folks. She has a difficult play ahead of her here. Let's see if she'll blame the older child, thereby creating self-esteem issues and resentment toward the baby. Or, if she'll take the easier route and blame the small, defenseless child who can't verbally retort."
Thankfully, Dr. Susan stepped in, distracting everyone with tongue depressors and even though tears were still streaming down cheeks, no one was screaming anymore.
Not until the three shots, that is.
Poor Sam, his defenses were down and then soon, too, were his pants. And he got three shots in his little white skinny chicken leg.
Two suckers, one Scooby Doo sticker and $444 later, we were on our way out.
"You were right," Sam said cooly. "That wasn't bad at all!"
Speak for yourself, Noodle.
He started to sense something this morning and spent about 30 minutes whining and fretting about going. I conducted a fake examination of him, in hopes it would calm him down. But every few minutes he would say under his breath "But I don't WANT to go to the doctor."
I don't know how it happens that when you seem to have plenty of time - in this morning's example, we were all dressed, ready and waiting a full hour before we needed to leave - but the last 15 minutes is spent rushing and running and trying to make it out the door. In any case, 9:45 we're at the doctor.
For the most part he did great. He has 20/20 vision (despite his genetic disposition to near blindness). He's right on for height and weight. Ears, eyes, teeth all look great. No worries about dyslexia (yes, I've been worrying) or dandruff (that too) or bedwetting.
I know now how difficult it can be to get a 4-year-old to pee in a cup, not once but twice because you drop the nicely filled cup into the toilet.
But, just about the time that I'm telling the doctor how proud I am of Sam and his behavior as a big brother, he and Jake get into it. I mean really get into it. Pulling and pushing. Sam yelling "You are NOT my friend." Jake yelling "BRRYAAAA. TAAADOOOO."
At this point I felt like I was the one having the examination. I heard this low whisper, like a commentator during a golf tournament: "Alright folks. She has a difficult play ahead of her here. Let's see if she'll blame the older child, thereby creating self-esteem issues and resentment toward the baby. Or, if she'll take the easier route and blame the small, defenseless child who can't verbally retort."
Thankfully, Dr. Susan stepped in, distracting everyone with tongue depressors and even though tears were still streaming down cheeks, no one was screaming anymore.
Not until the three shots, that is.
Poor Sam, his defenses were down and then soon, too, were his pants. And he got three shots in his little white skinny chicken leg.
Two suckers, one Scooby Doo sticker and $444 later, we were on our way out.
"You were right," Sam said cooly. "That wasn't bad at all!"
Speak for yourself, Noodle.
posted by Romine Family at 5:00 PM
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