I don't know about you but whenever we have to go to doctors I can feel my blood pressure go up.
Even if I know in my soul of souls there is nothing wrong with my children that two shots of tequila (for me, not them) couldn't fix.
It's when I feel this way that the blindsiding always happens.
It's always when the doctor points out something you overlooked ... or missed while you were looking elsewhere ...
"So. How's he eating?"
"Well I suppose he's eating just breastmilk and air ... but he's still gaining weight."
"Yes, he is ... but according to this he's slipped off the weight charts."
My children have a tedency to do that. They hover low on the lines until they start walking, and then they walk right off the grid. You can't even hear the little thud when it happens, evidently they really are THAT small.
And yet, he's got good baby pudge. He's not the plumpy plump that looks so adorably edible on wee babes, but he's not skinny. He's just scrumptious. Since the nurse had made an error on his height (missing an inch of growth) the doctor had him weighed again, too. No error there.
My meditation begins: Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom. Don't worry mom.
Eventually I drown out my thoughts.
Until the nurse comes in with Annabel's chart and reads a notation that her hearing and eye tests weren't noted from her four-year examiniation back in December.
"I'm sure they tested her eyes," I say looking at the chart on the wall, "But I don't recall a hearing test."
A few minutes later, the nurse reappears with a box that looks like a portable record player and some earphones. She hooks Annabel up and tells her the rules to the game.
At first Annabel seems to play by the rules. She drops a block into the bucket whenever she hears a sound. She gets so good at this game that she starts to drop blocks even BEFORE she hears a sound.
Backing up the process. Let's do this again.
Now she's not playing the game. Now she's lining up the blocks against her leg and ignoring the sounds. When the nurse asks her if she hears it ... she says "I think I hear it." When the nurse asks her which ear the sound came from she points.
The game continues. But the rules have changed.
I think I hear the sound. ... This ear ... she points again. This time the nurse is silent. "Ok. This ear," she says, pointing to the other ear.
"That's not how it works, " the nurse says.
Back and forth ... sometimes she seems to hear, sometimes she just plays with the blocks.
She asks when the game is over. She's tired of it.
The nurse can't tell if she has a hearing problem or if it's just her age: that horrible fourth year, where truth and fiction become almost indistinguishable.
They want to retest her when Silas comes back in three months. Until then I'll be trying to force-feed the Champ and wondering if Ittybit is going deaf or just ignoring me?
Sigh. Oh, look. Just below. ... Rock show. no earplugs. ... Double sigh.
Silas: One Year
weight: 17 lbs., 12.5 ounces
length: 28.4 inches
head circumfrence: 45.8 cm