I knew within moments of the doctor walking through the door that we were in trouble. As Alexis sat on the table, all scrunched up as she examined a loose thread on her sock, the newest pediatrician in the practice asked me a series of questions about Alexis' history. Every last answer could have been found in her short file, a fact which screamed at me as I was drilled about past hospitalizations and the like.
"How old was she when that happened?" the doctor asked.
"I don't have the dates in front of me, but I'm sure you do," I replied.
I wasn't trying to be disrespectful. I was genuinely dumbfounded as to how a pediatrician could walk into a room to examine a kid who hadn't been to the doctor in over eleven months without at least skimming her file. I was equally dumbfounded as to how the pediatrician had gotten into the large group practice. None of the other pediatricians had ever approached an exam so grossly unprepared.
The questions finally stopped and were replaced with interpretations of new information. "Let's see, she's just under 43 inches tall . . . that puts her in the 50th percentile," the pediatrician reported.
Not tall enough, I thought. She needs to grow another inch if she wants to ride Space Mountain next month.
"And she weighs 43 pounds . . . so the 75th percentile," she continued.
43 pounds? Soaking weight and holding a brick, maybe, I thought.
"That puts her body mass index in the obese range," the pediatrician said, averting my glare by staring at her computer.
I blinked. And blinked. And blinked. That's what I do when there is a traffic jam of words trying desperately to escape my head all at once. The madder I am, the more words get stuck and the faster I blink. At that moment I was blinking so furiously the paper on the exam table was ruffling in the wind.
SHE'S RIGHT THERE was one of the thoughts stuck in the traffic jam. As in, SHE CAN HEAR YOU and HAVE YOU SEEN HER? BECAUSE SHE'S RIGHT THERE.
None of the words made it out of my mouth. Instead, I sat there blink, blink, blink, blink, blinking.
The doctor turned to Alexis as I blinked furiously. "No more soda or sugary snacks for you, OK?" she said.
BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINK.
"I don't like soda," Alexis said.
BLINKBLINKBLINK Yeah! You tell her, kid! BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINK.
"OK, well, make sure you stick to healthy snacks," the doctor continued.
BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINK.
"I like carrots," my "obese" kid reported. "Carrots are healfy!"
BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINK If you think I trained her to say that, you're wrong. BLINKBLINBKBLINKBLINKBLINK.
The doctor continued with her lecture as I blinked furiously and Alexis sat dumbfounded. The kid doesn't like junk food. She really, truly doesn't. We've never made a big deal out of it to her because, well, WOOOOHOOO! Do you know how fantastic it is having a kid who spits out Pop Tarts after one bite because they're too sweet? We don't want her to catch on to the fact that she's sort of a freak.
BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINK.
Finally, some words managed to navigate through the traffic jam and fell out of my mouth. THE WRONG WORDS.
"Have you seen her head?" I asked out loud. (This? THIS is why I blink when I'm mad. I can't be trusted to open and close my mouth.)
"What do you mean?" the doctor asked.
"The kid is a bobblehead," I . . . uh . . . clarified. (SEE! My mouth can't be trusted!)
The words are true, though. Alexis' head has always been too big for her body. It's a well-documented fact (Reason #153428 it's a good idea to read her damn file before trying to play doctor). She's a skinny, skinny kid with a big ol' square noggin bopping around on top. She's destined to keep those chubby baby cheeks for a while longer, but there isn't an ounce of baby fat left on her anywhere else. Trust me, I've tried to find some, if only so I could tell myself, "See! She's still sort of a baby!"
The doctor was still clearly confused as to what the bobblehead has to do with the kid's weight, but charged on with the appointment as I sat blinking in the corner.
This isn't a case of parental denial. Anyone with two eyes can see that the kid is NOT obese.
That pediatrician is so definitely fired.
Just as soon as I stop blinking.
