Awkward Mom vs. the Doctor Visit (part 2)

OK, where were we? Ah, yes, we were pre-0%-height-Awkward-Mom-freak-out-complete-with-an-extra-helping-of-mom-guilt-and-self-indulgent-moaning. I mean, heaven knows Super Toddler's 3 year well check visit shouldn't be about him but about Awkward Mom and her barely concealed feelings of inadequacy. Everyone knows that every action and reaction of a mom's child reflects on her and earns her mom status and secret mom points redeemable for June Cleaver pearl necklaces and awesome floral aprons. (You didn't know that? Well, a conspiracy lead by What to Expect When You are Expecting keeps it pretty hidden.) Everyone knows that this whole parenting thing is really about the parents, duh....

So, the doctor has just told me that Super Toddler is in the 0% for height. I am staring at him, while trying to keep all my swirling feelings of inadequacy inside (at least until I can get home and blog about them...) but he must see them peeking out of my eyes. He smiles reassuringly, looking ridiculously similar to that awesome doctor from Field of Dreams who is always buying his wife hats, and says "hear that?" I continue to stare at him, half freaking out about the height thing and half trying to remember who played that doctor; "I'm sorry, hear what?" This time he actually laughs, "Your son." I turn towards Super Toddler and momentarily block out my relentlessly messy monologue of mom mistakes. Super Toddler is excitedly telling the doctor a story about a princess who heals the bunnies in the forest with magical bandaids and a poofing stethoscope. "Your son is just fine, in fact, I would hazard a guess that he is a tad advanced in some areas. Don't worry about his height. In fact, I would recommend less worry in general."

The rest of the examination goes well. The doctor listens to my frantic tale about how Super Toddler doesn't eat very much. He nods sagely and says "is it like that every day?" I am forced to say "Well, no, somedays are better." He laughs, "I wish I didn't eat the same amount everyday, then I might be able to lose some of this." He grabs and shakes his belly, a la Santa Claus, and both Super Boys shriek with laughter. I must admit I am smiling a little too. He tells me to continue to make healthy, balanced meals and let Super Toddler do the rest. (Now, I guess I have to make healthy, balanced meals...) He also tells me that I can give Super Toddler vitamins, saying, "They can't hurt him and I have a feeling they might make you feel a bit better too." With that and a wink, he leaves. I am starting to think that he actually is Burt Lancaster. (ps..thank you, imdb!)

So, we are hanging out in the exam room because we have been told to wait for both a shot and an eye test. Super Toddler, distraught by the doctor's departure, is hardcore rebelling against his robe. He has it up over his head and is swaying dangerously close to the edge of the exam table, while shouting that he wants his pants RIGHT NOW. Super Baby seems safe enough on his chair, merrily drooling and chewing on a tongue depressor, so I shift over to Super Toddler and tug his robe down. He immediately pulls it back up, so I pull it down. This little game keeps him distracted until the eye test technician arrives.

So, Super Toddler is shown a series of drawings. He rattles off the names easily enough, only getting stuck at the Panda Bear, which he seems to think better resembles a mouse, specifically one from Cinderella. The next part of the test involves the technician backing into the hallway and Super Toddler's eyes being covered one at a time with a little pink stick that is immediately dubbed a wand by Super Toddler. I am recruited into holding the "wand" over Super Toddler's eyes but Super Toddler wants to do some poofing and is not interested in the pictures that he already saw and named. I am trying to wrestle the wand out of his hands and over his left eye. The eye test guy is cheerfully holding out a picture of a house. And Super Baby is flying out of his chair and onto his head. This, of course, happens in super slow motion so my tortured mind can memorize it and play it back on repeat on nights when I can't sleep. Super Baby immediately starts screaming, so Super Toddler decides to join him. I gather up Super Baby and assess the damage. A rather red spot, but so far no bleeding or swelling. And hey, we are in a doctor's office if anything goes wrong, right? I cuddle him and Super Toddler poofs him, while the eye test technician (who, incidentally, looks about 15) stares at us in horror. I really don't think we are getting out of here without a psych consult....

We rush through the rest of Super Toddler's eye test and he seems to have prefect vision. Wonder how long that is gonna last with 2 parents and 4 grandparents with some serious glasses. Oh well, no need to worry about it now. Now, we have to prepare for a shot. Joy. I am hoping Super Toddler heard the nurse when he said if the shot goes well, he can have a sucker. I should not have worried. I am safely ensconcing Super Baby on the floor, when I notice the distinct absence of any conversation regarding princesses. I spin around to spy an open door and a shed robe (he is right, it is rather ugly) puddled in the doorway. My inner Sherlock tells me that something is afoot. Leaving Super Baby to whatever chewing delights he can find, I go dashing out into the hallway. I don't have to go very far before I find the crowd of bemused nurses. Super Toddler seems to have found the holy grail of toddler treats; an entire rack of stickers, row after row of rolled promise, enormous coils of shiny Nemos and colorful Doras. This mecca of childhood hangs just within his reach, so he is standing there in awe; naked (except for a blue and green polka dot Target diaper) both in body and desire. I have arrived in time to see his slightly shaking left hand reach up to reverently stroke Buzz Lightyear on the cheek, while his right one heads straight for Mickey Mouse's ears. He glances up at his audience and smiles, flashing his dimple, with charm pouring out of his very pores. They can't give him stickers fast enough and we return to this exam room, and the ugly robe, laden with 2 Buzz Lightyears, 2 Mickeys, a Dora, 3 Nemos, and, of course, a Princess Tiana.

The shot goes off without a hitch. Has Super Toddler stumbled onto something? Demand your treat upfront and you'll be so distracted, you won't notice the shot. I think the doctor is right, Super Toddler is advanced. And speaking of stumbling, you are not going to believe this (OK, you probably will believe it); I totally trip leaving the doctor's office. Totally trip and crash right into the door on my way out. Super Baby is asleep and doesn't seem to notice the jostling. Super Toddler gazes up at me, hands me a Nemo, and says "it's OK, Mommy. Don't worry." 0%, my foot.

Well, we don't call her Awkward Mom for her grace, poise, or delicacy. Super Baby, we maybe should have named Sleepy Baby, but Super Toddler, well, he is more than aptly named. Thanks for stopping by; all of our readers are 100%!