November 9th, 2011
Yesterday we hied to the doctor for Pudding’s annual checkup.
If you’ve been reading for any decent stretch of time, you know my theory, the Murphy’s Law of Doctors. Well, that came into play again yesterday.
Having left the pediatrician we had previously because of constantly having to deal with the one asshole in a three-physician practice, I found a new office that I really like because of their holistic integrative approach to well-being. The doctor who owns the practice is really nice and the other doctor whom we met on our first visit, I was practically in love with.
Of course, about a month after the kids records were transferred, the doctor I loved left to spend more time with her own 18-month old daughter – a move I found devastating and incredibly rude, since I’d been looking forward to her spending most of her time with MY children. The RUDENESS of her.
Another doctor joined the practice; I wasn’t so hot on her but it didn’t matter because next thing I knew she was like the song, dust in the friggin wind.
For about a year now, though, it’s been three doctors: 1 man, 2 women.
Me likey the man.
Me likey one of the women.
The other one?
Not so much.
So of course, you KNOW which doctor we saw yesterday when we went in for Pudding’s visit. You do know, right? Please tell me you know. You absolutely damn well HAVE to know.
So we get there, and she performs what I have to say is a pretty thorough exam. Not only is she checking heart rates and such, she’s asking lots of questions to assess his mental agility, physical skills and the like. Which is great, but not terribly effective, because Pudding is answering all of her questions….
WITH LIES AND A BIG FAT SMIRK ON HIS FACE.
Or sometimes, NO ANSWER… AND A BIG FAT SMIRK ON HIS FACE.
This, as you can tell, did not make this an easy visit.
“So, can you dress yourself?”
“Can you put on your own clothes?”
Then, after a few seconds, a big sigh followed by “No. My mom has to do it,” which he says in that tone of voice that means “DUH“. I am, at that very moment, helping him put back on his pants. Clearly, he is saying, she’s an idiot if she can’t see this.
“Okay, I know she has to do it right now because you’re standing on the exam table and we don’t want you to fall off, but what if she’s busy at home, can you do it yourself?”
He then proceeds to pull up his jeans, button them and zip them up.
She looks at me, confused.
I just shrug, a gesture calculated to mean “What do you want from me?”
“Can you hit a ball?”
Smirk. No answer.
“Like if you play teeball? Can you hit the ball?”
Big sigh with a slowwwwww roll of the eyes. “I don’t play teeball,” he says slowly, as though speaking to an idiot. I snicker. I see the doctor looking at me out of the corner of my eye but I stubbornly refuse to make eye contact. I will only make eye contact with her to make a point or when I think doing so will make her uncomfortable. Unfortunately, it is becoming quickly apparent that we have come into the office on a day when my juvenile behavior actually rivals that of my kids.
“Okay, well if someone pitches the ball to you can you hit it?””
Smirk, and he looks out the window.
She looks at me.
Finally, with the desire to
just get the fuck out of there already help her out, I throw her a bone. “He plays tennis and he hits the balls the teacher throws, so I think his hand-eye coordination is okay,” I say with exasperation. Can he hit a ball. Come on! Does she know what kind of house this is? His dad is an amateur athlete, for God’s sake, and my house rules are so lax that I actually allow my kids to throw balls IN THE HOUSE. Our remote has been rigged to get ESPN and if the kids try to change it they get electric shocks. Sports is not an elective in this house; it is a MAJOR. If this kid can’t hit a fucking ball, we’re not taking him to a doctor; we’re taking him to an adoption agency.
“Do you like school? Are you all ready for school?”
Smirk – and more rollllling of the eyes.
This would have been a good time for me to chime in, but all of a sudden I found my manicure terribly interesting. I couldn’t wait to see how this one was gonna go.
“How about school? ABC’s? Do you like school?”
“I don’t GO to school,” he says with what is now complete and total exasperation. “I do my work AT HOME.” And again, another roll of the eyes.
She looks at me. I grin, to show her that I am insanely pleased with his answers, and then I say, “He’s homeschooled.”
“Oh,” she answers, her voice somewhere on the line between nonplussed and disapproving, which was exactly what I’d been expecting from her since she seems to be a sourpuss about that sort of thing. “What about you?” she asks, looking at Punksin, clearly hoping that maybe Pudding is a special case and is being homeschooled because he’s an idiot moron or something.
Punksin looks at me, her face a vision of mild disgust. I know my daughter, and she does not want to talk to this woman.
“She’s homeschooled as well,” I answer, this time with a smirk of my own. Nope, no idiots here, lady. Not by far.
Now, I should point out here that Punksin’s disgust was because she was sort of done with the doctor herself, due to something that happened earlier in the visit.
You see, dear old doc had asked me if I wanted to test Pudding’s blood. They’d done some non-invasive blood test early on in the visit and the results indicated he wasn’t getting enough iron. Unfortunately, the only way to confirm those results was with a blood sample via finger prick, which was optional. We’re talking iron, here, and I don’t want my child to be sick, so I said yes, let’s do the finger prick. Pudding overheard us talking and asked what it was all about and as I was about to explain it to him – me, his mother, you understand – the doctor butts in loudly with “OKAY, OKAY, WE DON”T NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT NOW, IT’S ABOUT NOTHING, LET’S GO ON AND WE’LL COME BACK TO THAT, OKAY?”
All shit hit the fan at this point because Punksin looks at the doctor in horror and yells, “But that’s LYING!”
Apparently, I have done a damn good job of teaching my daughter that LIES ARE NOT GOOD. Since I really didn’t like being overriden by the doctor when it was my goddamn decision whether or not to keep my son in the dark about getting his frigging finger pricked, I decided to keep my mouth shut as my daughter verbally stoned the woman, so there we were, Punksin looking at the doctor with judgmental horror, me staring at the doctor stonefaced, Pudding smirking and rolling his eyes, and the doctor looking at all of us and probably wondering if there was an APB out on us as escapees from an asylum.
So we had the awkward silence thing happen, and since we weren’t going to break it, she finally charged ahead, ignoring Punksin’s outburst and starting in with the aforementioned questions to Pudding, which he, as I have already explained, answered with so much lying and sarcasm that I’m sure the poor woman needed a stiff one by the time we left the office.
Of course, eventually I DID explain to Pudding that he needed to get his finger pricked and promised that it would feel like a pinch.
So the nurse comes in, lets him choose a finger (apparently the thumb hurts the most so they let them choose another one which was SO not an option when I was growing up, those fuckers), and he chose the ring finger.
She pricked it.
For a few seconds he sat there, looking at her in alarm.
Then slowly, his eyebrows rose higher and higher in horror, until finally he bellowed, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME? WHAT….ARE….YOU…..DOING TO ME?” in a voice loud enough to frighten every other kid in that office.
Of course I rushed to console him, but really, I had to hide a laugh. I mean, it was funny as hell how fucking PISSED he was. He wasn’t hurt – at first – he was MAD AS HELL.
But then, my little Pudding devolved into tears, poor thing, and that wasn’t so funny to me anymore. He cried and cried and cried, and only the promise of ice cream was remotely successful in staunching the flow.
Sigh. What sucks is, he’s gonna have to get a flu shot, and he is none too pleased about it. I’ve passed on them in years past, but with the kids being more and more active outside and us all already being sick like 3 times before winter has even arrived, I think it would be safer for us to do the damn thing. I hate being sick, and I hate my kids being sick.
The shots, yeah, that’s going to be fun. My plan is that in a show of empathy and solidarity, I will get mine on the same day he gets his. He’ll get his first, and then I’ll get mine.
I realize that this will probably not mean squat to him, and that actually, that plan is more designed to force me to get the damn shot.
I wonder which one of us is going to holler louder.