Doctor’s Visit

One would think that because I am a doctor, and have so much experience with doctor’s offices that taking my children to the doctor would be a breeze.  One would think.

I scheduled Baby Bird and Z for an early morning appointment because I figured it would be easiest to get in and out.  Everything started fine.  They were dressed in their cute little outfits and everyone was commenting about the adorableness of them and they were well behaved.  I was very self congratulatory at this point about my awesome parenting skills.

They got called back and did great with height and weight.

Then came the eye chart.  Z in typical Z fashion cant follow instructions at all and keeps running closer to take “a better look”.     Then she starts getting frustrated because Baby Bird is yelling out “star” and “heart” before she can name them on the chart, and it was her turn.

Then the obligatory waiting began.  I was prepared for this and brought snacks, except the ravenous Baby Bird ate them all before Z got anything but a handful of raisins.  This was a disaster.  I decided to play videos from Frozen to keep them calm but forgot that Z is afraid of Frozen and this resulted in her hiding behind the table crying.

She peeked her snot-encrusted face from around the table declaring, “Mommy, I gotta Potteeeeeeee!”

Great, Fabulous.  You have not been interested in initiating the voiding of your own bodily functions for a full 3 years and 3 months of life.  Glad that you decided, now, in the doctor’s office is the time.  Hurray.

Then I have a debate with myself.  I really don’t want to take this child into the bathroom at the doctor’s office.  The doctor is probably right outside the door ready to see us. Plus, I have to take her sister.  No telling what germs they are likely to come in contact with, however; we are working on potty training, so I have to make a decision.

I lug both kiddos down the hallway.  The nurse hands me a hat to collect a urine specimen.  Z notices the hat and immediately places it on the floor in an attempt to potty in it, which results in confusion and disaster.  I take the hat and place it on the toilet and place Z on the toilet.   She promptly falls into the toilet and starts trying to retrieve the fallen collection hat out of the toilet while I am pleading, “Z, don’t touch ANYTHING.”  Baby Bird takes this moment to start unrolling reams of toilet paper onto the floor. While I am addressing this situation, Z (who has been warned NOT to touch ANYTHING) has managed to get her beloved toy “Baby Panda” actually in the toilet.

I sigh.  Abandoning Baby Panda is a non-viable option.  I don a pair of neoprene gloves and fish Baby Panda out and place her in a biohazard bag and proceed with decontamination procedures on my children.

My husband says she cant breathe in there.

My husband says she cant breathe in there.

Z asks if she can hold the Panda in the biohazard back which I reluctantly agreed to.  Finally we are being examined by the doctor and while it is Baby Bird’s turn, Z manages to free Baby Panda from containment resulting in at least a gallon of hand sanitizer.  After getting her shot, she kissed the nurse on the cheek and on her way out declared, “Thanks guys, I had a really nice time.”

In related news, Mommy needs a glass of wine.

Well, At Least It’s Protein….

I am daily astounded by the differences and similarities between my babies. Z is precocious. She was an early talker.   She has made shocking speeches from the time she was eleven months old. Most recently, we have been potty training and we spent an eternally long couple of days in the Mythical Big Girl Panties.   It didn’t go well. We had SEVERAL accidents. Finally, Z looked at me and said:

“Mommy, I think my Big Girl Panties are bwoken.”

I said, “Really, Z, what’s going on.”

“They have holes in them. They don’t hold the peepee,” Z replied candidly.

After trying to contain my laughter, I promptly switched her back to pull ups. Clearly she just isn’t ready for this.

Baby Bird only communicates in a string of grunts and pointing and screaming. It is amazingly, just as effective as Z’s soliloquys.

Z is afraid of everything:

  1. Bugs
  2. Going too far from the house
  3. Anything on TV that is not PBS
  4. Airplanes
  5. Trains
  6. The dark
  7. The dining room (for some inexplicable reason)

Baby Bird is fearless.   She crawls headlong into danger. I lost track of her the other day and looked up and she was half way up the stairs oblivious to her impending head injury.   I was trying to get some housework done the other day and I noticed a black spot on her face. I went over to examine what was going on, and found half a bug hanging out of her mouth. She was happily munching on the other wriggly bit. When I removed the half that was accessible, she grunted, pointed and screamed about the loss of her delicious bug.   Moments after that, I found her trying to smash a snow globe into the carpet with both hands trying obtain access to its delicious contents.

And sand…. Where Z would timidly taste a little play sand, making a horrible face and discarding it, Baby Bird got a cup of the stuff and was drinking it like a med student guzzling coffee at two am on the wards.

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I don’t really know what I expected.   I guess I assumed that they would be miniature clones of me. Yet they have their own personalities that I had nothing to do with.   They came out endowed by God as the sweet little individuals I am now responsible for.   I thought they would be a blank slate, but I guess it is more fun un-wrapping the layers that are Baby Bird and Z. It is the most wonderful present I have ever unwrapped.

I See Your Yard Biscuit…

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Hubby and I had fellow blogger, Underdaddy and his wife, Supermom over for dinner the other night.  We look to them for guidance as that they are in this parenting thing two kids deeper than we are.  We were having a lovely evening.  The kids were playing well enough for us to indulge in some adult conversation.

I recently had read Underdaddy’s post on “Yard Biscuits”.  His number three was learning to potty train which can be a trying time I am told.  While they were swimming with his four small children, he quite expediently told them to “use the yard” so that the constant stream of small wet feet would not be continually tracked in and out of the house.  It is this kind of wise, no-nonsense parenting advice that I have come to appreciate from Underdaddy and Supermom. *

Underdaddy of course meant for his four kiddos to pee in the yard, but the Underdaddy children are extremely good at following very literal instructions.  Imagine his surprise and horror to see number three hunched over in the yard assuming a position very different than the number one pose.

As I said, I am told that potty training can be challenging.  As Underdaddy and Supermom were about to leave, we look up, and Z has pulled off her diaper, and announces, “I peed on the floor.”

I look down, and my two-year old has indeed urinated all over our hand scraped hardwood.

Fortunately,  the Underdaddy family is on their way out the door and this calamity can be overlooked.   Until…. We get to the sidewalk.  We have been experiencing our rainy season and had a rather torrential downpour earlier that day.  I may have mentioned Neurotic Beagle in the past.  One of Neurotic Beagles idiosyncrasies is that she refuses to get her paws wet for any reason.  So, if it has been raining and the grass is wet, she will back her bottom up off the pavement (ideally) to do her business.  But, this time, her business didn’t make it off the pavement and it is laying smack dab in the middle of the walk way in a giant, steaming pile.

So, Underdaddy, I see your “Yard Biscuits” and raise you one “Floor Pee” and one “Sidewalk Poop”.

*Other great parenting advice from Underdaddy and Supermom :

– Why buy a baby monitor?  Everything you worry about happening to your kid is silent.  If you can hear them screaming through two closed doors, they probably really need you.

–  Where do we find time to clean our house?  We gave that up a long time ago.  We suggest you just stop cleaning.

– Calm down.  Seriously.  You only have as many kids as you have hands.

I help

                My husband came to me the other day and said, “Where’s my underwear?”

I stood there a little incredulous.   This is not an issue I wish to address. I have long had a policy that his underwear is not my purview. “I don’t know,” I replied, eye roll, sigh, “I am not responsible for your underwear.”

Hubby: No seriously, where is it at?

Me: Seriously, I don’t know

Hubby: (stomps around, digs through piles of clothes, mutters to himself)

Me: After pausing and thinking for a moment, “What about all the pairs of underwear you have been throwing out.” (It suddenly came to me that I have observed several pairs of my husband’s underwear buried in the kitchen trash. And honestly, when one finds their husband’s underwear buried in the kitchen trash it is in the category of I. Do. Not. Want. To. Know.)

Hubby: I haven’t been throwing out any underwear.

Me:   Yes you have, I have seen something like two or three pairs a week in the trash.

Hubby: Why didn’t you tell me my underwear was in the trash?

Me: I assumed you knew. You threw it away.

Hubby: Why would I throw my underwear away?

Me: Remember the incident at Best Buy?

Hubby: (glares, more muttering)

Me: Well if you didn’t throw it away, and I didn’t throw it away…. (we both turn and look at the two year old)

Hubby: Z sweetheart, did you throw daddy’s underwear away?

Z: (blank stare)

Hubby: (holding a pair of underwear this time) Did you throw these away Z?

Z: (face lights up) Oh yeah, Daddy, I help.

                At that moment my mind flashed back to the many times over the last three months that I have followed the advice of all the parenting books about engaging your toddler in the care of the new baby. I have been asking her to “help” for three months now by throwing the baby’s diapers out when I change her. Perhaps this is a faulty strategy.   I think we are going to need more underwear.

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