The FPA

I don’t love going to the pediatrician.

And it’s not because I have some doctor’s office phobia or because I think kids often go into a doctor’s office being totally healthy and leave there covered in nasty germs from hundreds of other sick kids who have been sneezing, coughing, licking, touching  and dripping on everything they come into contact with.

I just feel like more often than not, it’s a waste of time.

But today I had to bring Number 5 and 6 in for their yearly physicals so they can go to school in the fall.

I go to one of those offices where there are 5 or 6 different doctors, plus some physician’s assistants.

There is one doctor and one physician’s assistant at the office that I really like.

The rest..

eh.

But I never remember to schedule an appointment until about 2 days before it should take place, so I always end up taking whoever has a spot open.

Today it was one of the physician’s assistants.

And not the one that I really like.

It was the one who made me feel like Joan Crawford when I took Number 4 and Number 7 for their physicals almost two years ago.

Great.

If I was lucky, she wouldn’t remember me.

Plus, Number 5 and Number 6 both had underpants on, so I felt much more prepared than last time.

We got to the office.

The nurse did her stuff first.

She measured and weighed them.

She commented on how cute they were.

And how good they were.

Phew.

We would be in and out in no time.

Does she sleep well?

Yes.

Does he know four colors?

Yes.

Can she balance on one foot?

Yes?

Does he know the first letter of his name?

Yes.

Do you have any concerns?

No.

All I wanted were the forms for school and to get the hell out of there.

The nurse pricked both of their fingers to get a blood sample.

They didn’t bat an eyelash.

The nurse complimented the kids again and then a couple more times before she left.

Then we waited for the PA.

She came in shortly after the nurse left.

I waited for her to compliment me on my cute and well behaved children and also on my parenting skills just as the nurse had.

“Number 5 only gained one pound since last year.”

*Cue interrogation*

“What happened?”

I was a little taken aback.

“Um, huh?,” I asked.

“What happened? She’s not gaining weight.”

“Uhhhh, nothing happened. She’s doing great,” I said.

“She hasn’t been sick?”

“No,” I told her.

“She didn’t get hurt?”

“No.”

“Does she eat?”

Oooooh.

That one pissed me off.

“Yes,” I answered, starting to clench my teeth.

“She eats.”

“Does she eat a well balanced diet?”

Oh my God.

“Yes.”

Then she turned to Number 5.

“Do you eat snacks?” the PA asked her.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“SHE EATS SNACKS,”  I answered for Number 5.

This was followed by a furrowed brow, some pursed lips, a condescending hmmmmm, and the following question:

“Do you want the dietician’s number, or shall I have her call you?” the Fucking PA asked me.

I took a deep breath and told the FPA that the dietician could call me.

And then I thought about all the things I wanted to call the FPA.

But I kept my mouth shut.

There were enough pricks in that room already.

 

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