Avery had her 18-month check up yesterday and might I say that taking her to the doctor is like a roller coaster of emotion, where the only two emotions are bursting pride and deflating embarrassment.
The pride comes from her development. I had to fill out a short questionnaire regarding her developmental milestones which asked me about her speech, mobility, dexterity, intelligence (well, what she has learned and retained), etc. Every question was a check in the ‘yes’ box. Some of them I even laughed out loud (in my head) at. “Can she point to three body parts, correctly, when asked?” Pfft. She knows them all. All of her facial features, arms, legs, knees, neck, back, bum, belly button, feet, fingers, toes, elbows, clavicle, scapula (just kidding on those last two). Three? Ha. She ate three body parts for breakfast.
I still didn’t do that right, did I.
Anyway, she pwned the development questionnaire, is where I’m going.
Then came the nurse, to whom Avery promptly gave suspicious eyes. She could just sense that this woman had evil running through her veins*. Especially when she asked me to strip Avery down to her diaper. Avery doesn’t even like to have her sleeves rolled up; she most certainly doesn’t want her clothes off. In public. But I did it because I’m the boss, not her, but don’t tell her that or she’ll push me down the stairs or slap me across the mouth or something.
And that’s where the deflating embarrassment came in. I was still riding on the wave of bursting pride, asking Avery questions that required her to respond with the cutest word ever to escape from a child’s mouth (“nope”, surprisingly. when she says it you can’t help but squeeze her cheeks), and loud enough for every one in the office to hear how smart and cute and how superior she is to all the other babies who probably just barely passed the My Baby Is Better Than Your Baby quiz that Avery totally aced.
Then the nurse wanted to weigh her, as per standard practice at a Well Baby check up. Oh, dear. This never goes well. She trusts that baby scale about as far as she can throw it at my face. I tried. I begged. I bargained. I blackmailed (“I will tell Ethan you pooped in the tub…“). Nothing. I succeeded only in making my baby cry. She wouldn’t let the nurse do it. She wouldn’t let me do it.
Fine. Plan B. Which is really the worst plan ever because it involves me weighing myself with all of my outdoor winter gear, including knee-high winter boots, and announcing the results for the entire office to hear. Twice. Once with her, once without. And I couldn’t exactly say “the number” (nice try; I’m not telling y’all) and follow up with “BUT THAT’S WITH A DOWN FILLED PARKA, WOOL SCARF, HUGE THICK OLYMPIC MITTS, AND FUZZY KNEE HIGH UGG RIPOFFS, SO THAT NUMBER ISN’T EVEN ACCURATE” without sounding a little nutty.
But we did it that way and got the job done. The things I do for my kids…
* The nurse is not evil. She’s a nice lady who probably hates stabbing babies with needles, even though she’s really good at it. And by “good at it”, I mean Avery’s left arm is swollen to twice the size of her right arm and sports a quarter-sized bruise in a charming shade of blue, framed by a rainbow of soreness, all of which has never happened before. Yup. Totally not evil.