I’ve never seen someone walk out of a doctor’s appointment until last night, when my four-year-old son did it.
He was cool with everything right up until the doctor walked in. In fact, he was such a Chatty Cathy with the nurse, telling her about how he was going to the moon, which is 44 miles away, and where his rocket ship is and how his Crocs were big boots that he was wearing on the moon…that it must have taken half an hour just to get him on the scale.
I finally told him that it was a moon rock and that if he got on it, we’d see how much he weighed on the moon. He looked at me, considered it for a moment, then stepped on.
And kept right on talking.
For the record, we need to cut back a bit on the yogurt drinks. He’s in the 95th percentile for weight, but only the 90th for height. They’re not concerned, but used it as a reminder that we should avoid sugary drinks, which in 3B’s case is yogurt drinks, since he hates anything fizzy and hardly gets any juice. But I guess we shouldn’t have been feeding him a pop-tart while you were explaining this to us…hey, at least it was an organic one.
And once the nurse was done with that explanation, 3B was still cool, waiting in the exam room. He even gave Jewel an exam up on the table, checking her throat, ears and eyes.
But when the doctor came in through the door, 3B didn’t waste any time going out through the door. He stood right outside the door in the hallway, arms crossed, glowering back into the room, insisting that he wasn’t coming back in.
The doctor didn’t seem to know how to handle it, and the chaos wasn’t decreased by Jewel’s constant and loud chatter. So, I went out, picked him up, hugged him, and finally promised him Burger King after the appointment to get him back in the room.
After a moment or two, he was pretty much like Fonzie for the rest of the appointment, until he realized he was getting shots, which is when the tears started. It didn’t help that he was hungry, despite the pop-tart, and tired from a long, fun day with his babysitter and Mama. Somehow we managed to survive–thankfully the nurse returned to give the shots, and so didn’t mind that he had wrapped his lovie around his arm to protect himself. I don’t care how many times it happens, or how normal it becomes, every time I see my kids upset like that, it makes my heart ache.
He recovered pretty quickly, however, especially when they gave him an Iron Man sticker on the way out…”I’m Tony Stark, and there was an explosion, and I got a piece of metal in my chest, and then I made a suit of armor…”
Back to normal.
The milkshake at BK didn’t hurt either.
Hey, at least it wasn’t a yogurt drink.