The doctor is not fun for Missy.
It’s quite the injustice. She arrives at this new and exciting place; there are plenty of toys to eat and pretty ladies in uniform fuss around. A matronly figure then calls out and the fun stops. Taken off, Missy is weighed, measured and manhandled in quite an unfriendly way. Then the ultimate injustice, as dad and the lovely doctor make happy faces, a 2 inch sharpened piece of steel is plunged into her thigh. That’s enough to make the hardiest infant cry. No wonder waiting rooms are full of sobbing babies, its not sickness that’s the problem, it’s the outrage of the steel spike.
There are times we have taken Missy for check-ups that stand out. The first was when she was very young. Poor baby had been upset for a while and we were trying everything – nappy changes, cuddling, rocking, warmer clothes, cooler clothes, nothing seemed to work. Finally at 2am we decided to head to the hospital. Now I can tell you, bringing in a 3-month old baby at 2am really gets things moving – nurses and doctors came from all directions. We explained the problem. Our angel baby, who just doesn’t cry, is crying! The doctor peered into ears and mouth looking concerned as he checked her over. He asked us if we have other children. “No” we answered, “has she been fed?” he asks…
With a sigh and a shake of his head, he mumbles “new parents”
New parents panic, we don’t think. A friend once told me with your first child, every cough, every yawn, every strange look is monitored and interpreted as an imminent catastrophe. By the second you are more comfortable they are a hardy species and by your third child, they could be on fire and you probably wouldn’t notice.
Then we had “the incident”. Missy and my wife both needed to see the doctor. I took baby in while Mum saw her doctor. After they were done I picked up all the medication Inexplicably I was then left in charge, taking control of dosage and delivery of medicines for our cherub and her minor ailment. It seemed easy enough, it was written down after all. Three boxes:
1) “Take one, three times a day.” Simple.
2) “Take two, morning and night.” Even simpler.
3) “Take one, once a day.” This was the problem – should it be morning, midday or night?
Now after many years of resisting directions from above, I realized I needed to ask my wife. A wrong dosage just wouldn’t do. So I rang her, explaining the situation. She asked the name of the medicine. Then it went downhill, rapidly.
“I don’t think our daughter needs to be on the Pill just yet” she replied. This of course has created much merriment at my expense with friends. At Christmas, my daughter and a friends’ boy were playing in her cubby, “don’t worry,” my wife giggled to his parents, “she’s on the Pill.”
The doctor is not fun for Missy – or me.