Just Another Day at the Doctor's Office

My son had his 9 month old doctor visit today. Actually, a more accurate way to put it would be I had my son's 9 month old doctor visit today. All I can say is I am never taking my son to a doctor again without taking someone along to help me. Considering the fact that at only 9 months of age he already has a neurologist, orthopedic surgeon, physical therapist, opthamologist, early intervention coordinator, pediatrician, and a dermatologist, I guess I better start assembling the virtual army of people it will take to make that possible.

First, we sat in the waiting room. Oh how I love waiting rooms. Did I say we "sat" in the waiting room? The progression usually goes like this... I start out sitting in the chair with him in my lap. I am a prepared mom, so I have about 4 or 5 different toys in the bag to keep him amused. I give him the first one, saying "Look, Dylan! Your "X", with enough enthusiasm to get him so excited about "X" that he will surely sit there patiently playing with such an amazing toy. He looks at it, then looks at me as if to say, "Mom I've seen this dumb toy 100 times, but nice try", then throws it on the germ infested floor. I try to figure out a way to pick the now germ infested toy up off the ground, without dropping the now squirming Dylan on his head. After successfully managing to do that, I stuff germy toy No. 1 in my bag, and move on to walking around the room. I show Dylan all the pictures on the wall, which usually keeps him occupied for about, oh, 2 minutes. Then, he decides he absolutely MUST get down and play and the germ infested floor. I get him in a wrestling hold and proceed to the jiggling/bouncing stage.

At that point, the receptionist calls me over to take some handouts(when do I have time to read?), and tells me I owe the copay. I hold the wriggling kid in my left hand, while trying to unzip my purse with my right hand, get the money out, and hold on to the handouts. Dylan grabs the handouts and starts eating them. I give the nice lady the $10, and look at her like "Are you serious?", when she asks if I would like a receipt. Uh, unless you'd like to put it in my mouth, then no. Back to the jiggling/bouncing stage. My left leg is starting to ache, when the nurse calls us in.

I try to get Dylan undressed so she can measure and weigh him, while also trying to focus on whatever questions she is asking me. Dylan flips over as I'm taking his pants off, catching his foot in one opening, and almost doing a header off the table. After catching him, I realize the nurse is asking me a question for the third time. "Sorry, what?" "Do you have any concerns at this time?" I look at her to see if she has glasses on. My son's legs, arms, and neck are completely covered with ezcema, which you could probably see from space. I mentioned that yesterday when I called to see if they could take him a day earlier, but apparently they didn't write that on the form. After I explain "my concern", she measures him as much as you can measure a kid who can't be still for even one second at this point. Then, she says I can carry him to the other room where she will weigh him. Oh Joy! I love that part! Dylan hates that scale. Can you blame him, really? How would you feel if at your next doctor appointment, they made you strip down to just your underwear and sit on a cold hard scale in front of everyone? Not a pretty picture, is it? Now, please don't have nightmares about this tonight - that was not my intention.
He gets up 3 times before we finally get an "accurate" measurement.

Now we wait for the doctor, (who isn't the one we normally see), to come in. While waiting, Dylan takes the roll of white crinkly paper and throws it onto the germ infested floor. (Guess I should have told them about that - oops). The doctor came in right after I put it back up on the table, and placed the now pissed off Dylan on top of it. I get out Toy #2 from the bag to amuse Dylan while the doctor pokes and prods him. He promptly throws it on the germ infested floor, and tries to do yet another header off the table. I grab him and start the jiggling/bouncing again while attempting to focus on what the doctor is saying. She keeps saying "Ok now, Mom, here is what I want you to do". I am quite certain I didn't birth this woman so why does she keep calling me "Mom"? Instead of focusing on what she is saying, I find myself couting the number of times she calls me "Mom". I get to 9 before finally snapping out of it. As she continues her instructions, Dylan is arching his back with such force that I can no longer hold him. I give in and let him down onto the germ infested floor, which he crawls all over, before putting his hand into his mouth.

The doctor tells me I can get him dressed, and I whine "I need some assistance!" She sighs as if to say "I don't get paid the big bucks to "assist", but I'm so pitiful she pulls the onsie over his head while I hold him still. Then she quickly exits before I can ask her for more assistance. I notice the onsie is on backwards. COME ON, LADY! I could have managed to do that on my own. I pull the shirt off and get it on the right way before Dylan launches into his "I am done here" cry. At this point, I am so sweaty one would think I either just had phenomenal sex, or ran the Boston Marathon. My arms ache, my legs ache, my hair and clothes are in disarray, and I am almost in tears. He has launched into his thermonuclear cry - T minus 10...9...8... I grab everything, including the pants and socks he was wearing, and stuff it into the bag. I don't even bother to snap his onsie. I just grab the bag, Dylan, and run as quickly as possible to the car. I put him in the carseat, throw the still open bag in the backseat dumping half its contents, start the car, take off down the road, and my wonderful angel is asleep within 5 minutes. Bliss!

My son's 9 month doctor appointment had me. I better go start assembling that army.