Zoe vs. the Doctor Visit

Say the word, say the word.
And Wally will put Norville down.

During Zoe's first year, when she had to go to the doctor for all those check-ups and shots, I could always hear the other babies crying. But Zoe never did. Even at the sick visits, of which there were probably an equal number, she bore all the poking and prodding with fortitude. This includes the time they couldn't get a good temperature reading so the nurse had to insert a thermometer up her Wallykazam! (New show on Nick Jr.! Don't know why I'm plugging it! I may have been brainwashed by all the promotional lead-ins to Team Umizoomi!) In response to such a gross invasion, infant Zoe just cooed. She was the perfect patient.

But her equanimity fled as soon as she was old enough to be aware of her surroundings. And dislike them.

Then I was just like the mothers of all those other crying children, saying there was nothing to fear, the doctor just wants to examine you, and then stick you with a sharp needle, maybe more than one. What?

Famous doctors/evil masterminds.

By her three-year visit she knew what to expect. And so did I.

Resistance.

Zoe would not submit to being weigh or measured. When the doctor approached her with the stethoscope she wailed. When he looked in her ears, only possible because I held her head clamped against mine, she wailed louder, causing me temporary hearing loss. The upside was I couldn't hear the doctor very well.

An upside because at her two-year visit, aka the last time Zoe was weighed and measured, he told me that Zoe was in the 95th percentile for height but 50th for weight, adding, unnecessarily, "She's tall and thin . . . like Daddy."

Thanks for that, Doc. So not short and squat like Mommy. Though I guess I should be grateful she won't be following in my lardass midget footsteps. I mean, let's not be subtle or anything. I know I need to lose ten pounds . . . in order to be at the weight I was before I got pregnant, at which former weight I often said I needed to lose ten pounds . . . which would've gotten me within ten pounds of the weight I was when I got married. 

Scarier than sharks with
frickin' laser beams.

Are you keeping track? Well, cut it out. That's just my complicated way of keeping the truth from myself that I need to lose thirty pounds. But my main point is, Zoe would not get on the scale, crying and screaming like a lunatic when she doesn't know from crying regarding stepping on a scale.

The nurse tried to bribe her with stickers and lollipops; I offered juice. No go. The doctor had no luck either and then just shrugged. Over her screams I mentioned that she was often a tad disagreeable and for the most part preferred it when things went her way. Was that normal?

He asked if I did time-outs. I said yes. 

Did I take toys away?

Sometimes.

Then he asked if I'd tried "using a stern voice." I didn't know what to say to that. Stern voice? Please. My larynx currently has two modes: the super-serious voice of doom or mad harridan banshee wailing. Occasionally I've reduced Zoe to tears and then I'd feel bad (well, a little) but she always recovered and went right back to some sort of nonsense, like licking an electrical outlet and then waiting for me to jump up as if I was the one who'd been electrocuted. 

As for shots, luckily, for that three-year visit she only had to get one, the flu vaccine. I held her tightly while she struggled, screaming and crying, her face next to the ear that was already in the 95th percentile for deafness.

I did not get her stats; she did not get stickers or a lollipop. Or juice.

Who got vaccinated, baby?

When we left, it was the same time as another little boy who'd been there for a sick visit. Which I knew because he'd been sitting on the other side of the waiting room coughing his lungs up. He'd gotten a lollipop. But he was so sick he'd only taken a few licks before dropping it on the ground outside.

Zoe looked at me like, Are you thinking what I'm thinking? . . .

I want to lick that.

Zoe: 31, Universe: 0