Today, Ella and I took Zoey and Zed to the doctor for their three-year and six-month checkups, respectively. Ella had to take the afternoon off work because there was no way I was going to be alone in an eight by eight room for forty-five minutes with someone poking and prodding my kids. Safety in numbers, you know?
The nurse weighed both children, measured their height, and measured the size of Zed's head. Zed only weighs twenty-two pounds and seven ounces. I say only (he's still in the ninety-seventh percentile) because he had been growing at a rate of two and a half pounds per month, so he's finally starting to slow down a bit (he gained three pounds over the last two months).
The doctor came in, glanced at Zed's chart, and immediately began feeling Zed's head. This went on for about ninety seconds. I was petrified. The doctor had never done this before, so I figured something must really be wrong.
He then took out his tape measure and measured Zed's head himself. The doctor then said, "Oh. The nurse measured it incorrectly. She measured it six centimeters too big." Yeah, but how is she with CPR? Because she almost needed to administer it to me.
I'm assuming that before the new measurement, the doctor was feeling Zed's head before he called Guinness. Turns out that even with the six-centimeter adjustment, Zed's head size was still in the ninety-seventh percentile.
The doctor then checked Zed's eyes, ears, lungs, heart (the murmur he had when he was born is completely gone), and, um, package. Turns out he's not looking like a candidate for a hernia operation anymore.
Then it was Zoey's turn. This child knows more words than some adults I know. But for some reason when the doctor spoke to her, she only answered monosyllabically, if at all. And despite the fact that she has been holding up three fingers to anyone and everyone this past week, when the doctor asked her how old she was, she needed help from her left hand to hold up three fingers on her right hand. Way to show the doctor how well you've progressed mentally and physically, Zoey! If Social Services pays us a visit soon, it's your fault, babe.
Zoey didn't fare much better on her eye exam. When the nurse would ask her "What is this?" half the time she would look at Ella and say, "You tell me." And one time she referred to a picture of a car as a boat. I was beginning to think she was deliberately throwing this exam just to get to me. Or perhaps she just wanted a cool pair of glasses like her Mommy.
And then came the moment I had been dreading the most: Zed's shots. To say he doesn't handle it well is an understatement; it's the same fun and games every time:
The needle goes into the skin. He's a bleeder, so blood trickles down his thigh. His face turns blood red as he lets out a three-second silent scream. Then he HOWLS. And HOWLS. And HOWLS some more. It takes a good twenty minutes to calm him down, after which you're left with ten minutes of occasional whimpering.
When Zoey received her shots as a baby, she cried for about two minutes and then went on her merry way. I keep telling Zed he needs to toughen up. If he doesn't, his sister will make his life a living hell.
Hello. My name is Chag Holland. I am a major pop culture junkie and music lover. I like to photograph weird things. I am a conspiracy theorist and an amateur cryptozoologist. I am an avid sports fan and follow the Yankees, Panthers, and Tar Heels. I am a stay-at-home dad and have two wonderful children and one beautiful wife. I write about all this stuff.
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