Doctor's Appointment

If my son Jack could talk, or express himself in an understandable way, he'd probably tell me that today was the worst day of his life so far--and I'd have to agree. It was pretty rough for me, as well.

No, I'm not being melodramatic. There's nothing seriously wrong with little man, but we did have a doctor's appointment this morning, and I am beginning to loathe check up days. I LOVE Jack's pediatrician, Dr. Z K. The Z K stands for ZOMG KOULDN'TYOUHAVEASHORTERNAME? (Seriously, she's a military pediatrician and the name on her BDU nametag has to be written in an 8 point font.)

But Dr. Z K is amazing. She is very thorough, she identifies what could be potential problems, and she tells us everything we could ever want or need to know about Jack's health and development, and does so it in a way that's not scary, but informative.

I still walk out of her office feeling like a huge idiot.

To begin with, Jack is a small dude. And by small, I mean he's in the fifth percentile for height and weigh. We have friends with kids who are half Jack's age that could put him in a headlock. At least Jack can bite his way to freedom. But Dr. Z K says "He's doing fine, its best not to compare. Besides, I'm looking at a child who obviously has no problems eating. He is small, but its normal."

Sidenote: She pronounces "normal" by saying "NAH-mahl". I love her accent, and hearing that my son is "NAH-mahl" is very comforting.

Development, motor skills, fine motor skills, appetite, vocal and social abilities: All "NAH-mahl". Yay for us!

And then she runs out of gold stars.

Jack has dry skin. Or so we thought. After examining him, Dr. Z K tells us that the rough knees are "NAH-mahl" for crawlers, but the dry skin could be weather related, eczema, or allergies. "Do you have pets?" she asks us. "Oh God, please tell me its the cats," says Reed.

Jack had a cold two weeks ago. Or so we thought. After examining him, Dr. Z K looks at me and asks:

"Has he had a fever?"
"Not more than 100 degrees."
"Hmm."

(At this point, when she says "hmm", my mommy panic meter is amped up to 11. On a scale that normally goes to 5. Maybe I should start using the terrorist threat alert color scale. Anyhoo.)

"Has he been fussy, or having problems sleeping through the night?"
"... No?"
"Hmm."

(Houston, we have a problem. The mommy panic meter is now at 27. Bill Paxton is officially vomiting all up in the lunar module.)

"Other than the congestion he had, did he have any other symptoms?"
"... No?"
"Hmm."

(Jesus H. Christ.)

"His ears are infected."

Okay, so its not a huge deal, but a capital FFS. My kid had no symptoms, never rubbed his ears, and other than spreading baby snot all over my living room furniture we had NO clue what so ever that our kid had an ear problem. How could I miss this? How terrible a mom am I?

"Its fairly NAH-mahl for small children to develop ear infections. I'll prescribe some antibiotics. Should go away soon. Just don't get on a plane for the next few weeks."

Face on desk.

Long story short, we finished up the exam, and then headed to the next office. Immunizations. For Jack's one year shots to be up to date, he had to get:

• Hepatitis A
• HiB (4th dose)
• MMRV
• PCV-13
• Flu Shot

Five shots. Five.

One, two, three, four, five.

Cinco.

Five times my son looked up at me as the needle went in. Five times he looked at me with utter horror, tears welling up in his baby blues, squeezing my little finger and asking in his silent, open-mouthed scream why I'd betrayed him.

Two penguin Band-Aids on his thighs later and I'm feeling, again, like the worst mom in the world. Jack's feeling pretty miserable, as he's resting on Reed's shoulder with his thumb in his mouth with wet cheeks and dagger eyes.

Then the next stop on our journey through the nine circles of hospital hell: the lab.

Bloodwork. Bloodwork to check for anemia (NAH-mahl procedure) and for standard allergies (not NAH-mahl). More needles. More screaming. More "way to be a shitty mom, mom."

Sigh.

Three vials of blood. THREE!? Jack is 19 pounds. Three vials of blood out of him and he looked liked the vampire cast of Twilight minus the glitter, crappy acting, and the teen angst. And even with the color drained from his face, the tears staining his cheeks, and his little throat sore from screaming, he still had the energy left to look at me with the worst pouty face he could muster.

Which, to my breaking heart might as well have been the middle finger.

Sigh.

Only 6 more months until the next one. Joy.