Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Doctor?

I hardly slept last night. Why? Well, one, because Tori’s teething (still). But even if she had slept like an angel, I would have tossed and turned. That’s what a looming visit to the pediatrician does to me.

I’m not sure why, but in my mind, the petite, mild-mannered fiftyish woman who actually cares for my daughter becomes a giant-sized, fire-breathing, ultra-judgmental Doctor from Hell in the days leading up to her appointment.

Too many comments of, “boy, your baby’s a chunk,” had me worried she’d tell me my baby was obese and that she’d have to advise my health insurance to cancel her policy.

The freshly scabbed over scratch on Tori’s nose? Would become a sure sign of child abuse in my doctor’s mind, and not merely a hint that I’m still afraid to trim her nails.

The mild diaper rash would also seem to be a symbol of neglect—and not just the result of vegetable-fueled bowel movements.

Heck, I even had myself half convinced that somehow, she would know I’d fallen with Tori in my arms, and would accuse me of trying to kill my baby.

Okay, maybe that last one’s a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the point. My brain took a trip to Crazy Town last night, and didn’t want to leave at closing time.

Needless to say, I was a wreck when morning finally arrived. Which meant that things didn’t go too smoothly around here. There was no spoon throwing, but only because Tori wouldn’t eat. At all. And no sooner did I get her dressed in her cute, man am I a good mommy doctor appropriate outfit  she, ahem, ejected the carrots from the night before…aaaaall the way up her back.

Emergency bath, anyone?

By the time all was said and done, I had about, oh, three minutes to get myself ready? Yeah. Not the best way to make a good impression when already you’re nervous. (SIDE NOTE: I am so glad I don’t have short hair. Short hair requires actual fixing in the morning—beyond a pony tail holder. How do you guys do it?).

We were late before we walked out the door (standard operating procedure around here). That, of course, made me worried that for the first time, the doctor would be running early, and we’d be turned away with some disdainful comment.

Which was ridiculous. We waited a good thirty minutes…sitting across from a Stepford Wife. The woman, although seeming to be a SAHM, was perfectly turned out (at 9 a.m.). Her shirt was ironed, her shoes were stilettos (okay, not really, but they were heels. And way more fashionable than my holey gym shoes)…she even had lipstick on. Her children, of course, also behaved angelically.

I spent the agonizingly slow minutes staring at her, wondering how one gets to that hyper-organized place, and did I have a chance in hell of ever getting there (the answer, I’ll just tell you right now, is no).

So, by the time our names were finally called, I was wallowing in a puddle of inferiority in downtown Crazy Town.

And that’s where my story loses steam.

Because, you see, once we got called back, everything went perfectly. The slavering demon in my mind transformed back into the cheerful doctor we know and love. She called Tori perfect. Cheered because she’d grown four inches (she’s tall for her age now, folks). And while Tori’s weight is still in the 90th percentile, the doc didn’t even bat an eye.

Oh, and the whole feeding thing? Not a big deal. Apparently, as long as we keep trying, all is well. She echoed what many of you told me—that  Tori eventually will get hungry. And then she’ll eat. Makes sense, right? Of course it does.

So I escaped without “Bad Mom” getting stamped on my head. Even better? I managed to escape from Crazy Town. I’d like to say it’ll never happen again, but that would be a lie. I’m sure that when her next appointment approaches, the slavering demon will knock on my door.

That would be one of the many downsides of having a vivid imagination.

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