Today’s Moody Mama is one of my favorite mommy bloggers, The Mom in Black. At the bottom of this post, I have put a link to her hilarious blog. 🙂
“Sweet. Toddler. Jesus.
Do you ever have those moments when you accomplish a task and you’re like, “Hey, everyone! I just did this and that makes me better than you!”? Well, unless any of those moments consist of taking a two year old terrorist to the doctor for shots, you have nothing. And no one. And I am better than you. (Jk jk. Actually, I’m probably worse. Much worse.)
Hey, everyone! Come see how much better I am than you!
Mean Monkey child had his 2.5 year check up, today. I wasn’t nervous/stressed/terrified about the appointment at all. Every other checkup and vaccination trip had been as average and uneventful as they come. If I had even the smallest, most baby-sized notion that things would go the way they did, I would have locked myself in a closet with the largest container of wine this side of a box (okay, let’s be real. I’m not too good for boxed wine.) and not come out until Jesus came back. Or until the kids whined loud enough. Whining physically hurts me.
Me in the closet.
I told him he’d be getting one shot and that it would hurt for a sec but he could have a special treat afterward. He was totally on board. See, he’s watched enough Doc McStuffins to know that doctors are cool preschoolers in playhouses with the power to make toys animate. Who wouldn’t be excited about a doctor visit?!
Well, something happened between our house and the doctor’s office. There must be some magical threshold that one crosses when going from private to public because once we left the hidden security and social obscurity of our home in the corn fields and entered society, all two year old hell broke loose. All of it. I’m talking about screaming, baby brother bink stealing, crying, pleading, tantrum after tantrum and that was only the twenty minute car ride to the doctor. Thank the good toddler-loving Lord that our practice has a tank of sea creatures like the ones in Finding Nemo because the sweet reminder of “cool fishies” was the only thing that actually got Monkey Man into the building. Upon entering, I was handed a stack of papers to fill out as if we haven’t been going there for months with questions like, “Can your child wash his own hands? Does your child interact with his peers? Has your child authored his own novel, yet?” And while I was filling out the 300 page questionnaire, Bear’s doing his best to fall out of the waiting room chair and Monkey is yelling, “NO!” at poor, sweet Andy (new doctor’s office toddler friend) because he keeps pointing at the tank and saying, “Pescado!” because, as Monkey will tell you, there’s only one language on this earth.
Pescado =/= fish. Unless you know Spanish. Then it totally does.
Maybe the staff could see that we were having such a good time and that’s why they let us sit for 30 minutes before calling us back. I’m sure they rest of the waiting room was sad to see us go; the tumbling baby, the angry boss of the English language toddler and the mom who’s not really addressing either child but keeps mumbling things like, “Who gives a crap?! Are you freaking kidding me?! There’s ANOTHER page?!” while filling out the milestones packet (seriously, I needed less time for the SATs). And if I thought the car ride, waiting room and SAT prep course packet were bad, I had no grid for the toddler terrorist bomb that was about to fall.
The sweet, young nurse very kindly asked him to take his shoes off and step on the scale. The thing is, she had no idea that this special friend has a weird thing about shoes. He wants to keep them on for approximately all eternity. She may as well have asked him to gnaw his own fingers off. At this point, I had to set the baby down, wrangle the fleeing inmate and forcibly remove his shoes. That was just about the time I realized that not only had he dropped a massive doodie bomb in his diaper but it was smashed up against my face in the wrangling process. I blacked out from the smell and woke to the sight of Monkey being weighed and measured quite agreeably. Maybe my demise is the only thing that gives him true joy and peace.
After the pleasantries with the nurse, we were whisked away to a private room where Monkey would fight me on every little thing. He refused to get undressed for the exam, refused to lay or even sit on the table, screamed bloody murder at the notion of shots and even went so far as being willing to trade all of his toddler possessions for the ability to get out of that place. He was having a good time and so was I. The baby was…I don’t know…somewhere in there. Thankfully, the doctor herself is surprisingly wonderful with kids. She’s tall and loud and expressionless but kids love her. However, we all know that doctors are only actually in the room for five seconds, and once she left we found ourselves at the gates of hell, once again. An older nurse popped in and stabbed Monk in the leg a few times while he screamed, “I don’t like the doctooooooorrrrrr!” and I can only imagine the Doc McStuffins vs real life confusion rolling around in that sweet, sweaty little head of his.
So, all in all, it was fun. I can’t decide which part I liked best, though. Was it any of the great experiences detailed above? Or was it the way I awkwardly cradled both children and my massive diaper bag out the door or when the snack pouch I’m reviewing got an air bubble and shot mushed banana all over my face, hair and dress? Hmm. Not sure. So many gems to choose from.
Make me happy, again.”
This From: The Mom in Black