Wednesday, December 16, 2009

4 month Well Baby

My baby is 4 months old. Seriously?!

Let's do the trek up to Portsmouth Naval Hospital and enjoy us a hot serving of military efficiency at its finest. No, really, WE HAVE TO.

So off we go, through the tunnel of death traffic, into the ghetto known as P-Town, past the ever-judgmental base gate-guard (no, I don't have my ID out and ready because, yes, I did find it necessary to be texting my husband my location while I waited in line because your newfangled technologically-updated buildings are impenetrable by my rogue cell phone waves. Thank God, hallelujah, we are protected from texting terrorists.) I didn't know if Stephen was going to make it off work in time to meet us somewhere so I had to report my status before I parked and went off the grid.

(and for the record, Blogger-post editting software, "texting" IS a word so stop trying to reprimand it with your accusatory red dotty line! Get with the times and quit being so 80's!)

And off we skip, tra la la la, into the seven story parking garage, finally find a spot, park and head to the elevator with 3 minutes to get to our appointment on time. I sprint up to PEDS on the third floor (and by sprint I mean awkwardly walk as fast as my postpartum maternity jeans can handle the incessant swish swash of my inner thigh regions as they wear the fabric thin and pilly - OMG, you know what I'm talking about). Tardiness is unacceptable. You do not want to have to wait another 3 weeks to "reschedule" a missed appointment. The sign on the wall clearly states "If you are over 10 min late for your appt, we will reschedule you". It also says "Please let someone know if you have been waiting more than 15 min past your appt time" but I dare you to take them up on that one. TRIPLE DOG DARE.

And as a not so funny side note: these people are. Straight. Up. Rude.
It's the military. Not like anyone is in fear of losing their job...

I was behind the sign that says "For privacy reasons, please wait here to be called" with angry red arrows and a big X taped to the ground. The desk lady was oblivious. Two minutes go by. No one else was waiting at the counter so I went ahead up. I was looking straight at this nub receptionist and she was writing so I waited, trying to be polite. I usually, as a rule, try my damnedest NOT to be rude. I didn't clear my throat or tap the counter with my nails. I just waited. Scanned the office. Looked down and smiled/cooed at E. Read the informative pamphlets about "Similac: It's the New Breastmilk" and "Breastmilk: It's the New MIRACLE OF LIFE". She continued to tap papers into orderly piles and scribble on post it notes. She finally looked up, sighs loudly, and scowls, "Say something!"

I was stunned for a second. Wha'.....
"Say something! You're just standing there!"
As she finished the sentence, she sort of maybe chuckled in a "I'm just joshin' ya around, I didn't mean it" kind of way.

But she did.

I almost reached over and curled my fingers in her fake too-long-for-regulation horse-hair curls. "Excuse me Bitch." But I didn't. Partly because, well My God, there were children everywhere and partly because fuck you we're changing peds and the paperwork is already making its painfully slow way through Tricare as we speak so MLEH (that's me sticking my tongue out in mature defiance). I blinked a few times and then I told her we had an appointment, right now, and we had arrived. She said wait and be seated, so I did. And then I mentally set her weave on fire wondered if she was just having a bad day.

We waited the required 45 minutes past our appointment time, as usual. We finally go back and answer the preliminary questions. Any concerns? Not really (I mean, I google, therefore I am informed). And they ask me if I filled out that 21490324 page questionnaire they always give me and I roll my eyes and say "No, I do not feel suicidal/homicidal/postpartumy-bat-shit-crazy. That would require I have free time and obviously I have a 4 month old so that's not an issue. And for the record, if I did have free time, I still wouldn't waste precious time being depressed. You could probably find me ohIdontknow in the shower, or possibly trying to finish JUST ONE GODDAMMED LOAD OF LAUNDRY before the Hubster comes home again and says "Ohay, what did you do all day". Maybe not with his words, but with his eyes. On second thought, give me the damned questionnaire, I want my husband to live.

Doc is going on about what solids to start with and how often and the importance of still getting enough milk and I just butt in "We won't be starting solids before the next visit so thanks but no thanks". Then he asks me all 122141 questions on the OTHER questionnaire, the one that asks if your 4 month old can do (insert age appropriate milestone here) and wants to know your daily schedule (haha schedule hahahaHAHAHA!) I tried to preface every answer with a prolonged eye blink because OREALLY?!? Then why did I waste my 45 minute wait in the lobby filling out your dumb paper when I could be watching FUCKING BARNEY with everyone else. (Disclaimer: "Fucking" describes not Barney's actions but Barney as an entity.)

And he wanted to know all about her hemangioma and I was beyond annoyed. 1) You're a doc. Look that shit up in your book. Put that expensive medical school training in action. 2) If your medical practice insists I see a different doctor every time I come, at least share notes or something. I really wasn't thrilled to be there. I just wanted to basically get her weight and height and then maybe a lolly pop or a sticker or something. I don't trust their backward thinking about child rearing. (Movie Quote: You hear that? He wants to REAR YOUR CHILD!)

That concludes this round of ranting. On to the raving.


Elizabeth's new stats are as follows.... (drumroll please :)
 Height: 27 inches
Weight: 15 lb 2 oz
(now I know where all that milk is going)

And I never got that lolly pop.

On to immunizations...

I really wanted to believe that this time would be different. I prayed to the gods that we wouldn't get the same guy as last time. I offered them the child after next as collateral (shhhh... we're only having two kids... What was that, God?... nope, nothing to hear over here...) He was there. Waiting to stab the next unsuspecting little baby. I was all like "Hey douche-tard, you who last time speared my precious one with your daggers of poison. No thank you. I will wait for the next available representative please."

Now let me get past my arrogance and swallow my pride a bit. Let me go back to the these mutilators and keep my cool and try to cling to the "bigger picture". Because I totally put my child's care above my own desire to spare her unneeded pain. Because hordes of babies have always been toted in to be assaulted get their shots and then successfully released to their parents to go on and drool another day. Because I want her to get them. I do. I'm not one of those hippies don't be believin' in no vaccines. I mean, no offense if that's you, but I would be more than pleased to take my spot in the ranks of lemmings parents you depend on to vaccinate our kids, in the hopes of keeping the plague away from your unprotectedvaccinated kids. K, that's my opinion. Just don't come crying to me when a wave of polio hits and, well, let's just say your kid can't stand in the "my legs work good" line. Damn Outbreak Monkeys. Oh, polio is dead, you say? Oh, ok then......

Another disclaimer: lemmings aren't actually lemming-like. It's a myth propagated by Disney.   Just so you can be informed.

Back to the story. I do wait for a different guy. Two in fact. A team. They are excellent. Tag team Lizzie's plump little turkey legs like they were injecting it to be deep fried. She cried for a second, a brief WHAT THE FROCK JUST HAPPENED (yes, she would say frock if she could because I would wash her little mouth out if not. DO AS I SAY and NOT AS I DO little minion!). Everything went pretty smoothly, nary a hiccup until I asked if I could pop E on the teat as soon as it was over because my chesticles have the same effect on her as they do on Stephen (complete and utter mind erasing. TMI? I thought so :)

The big tall one was all scared and "oh you cant breastfeed in here" and I'm like "WTF, let me update you on my rights you little adolescent brat. I will have La Leche up in this bitch so fast it will make your head spin, Poltergeist style. And furthermore,..." but he stopped me and said "Oh no, we just gotta keep the line moving. So I was like "Oh, ok, that's cool... Almost had to school yur punk ass"

But then the little shy pimply one piped in " Plus, we don't want to, like, see your boobs and get sued."

Twitch. Twitch.

"Hello, 1980's man. It my fucking right to whip my shit out and feed my child and I don't give two shits about you seeing my tits. They're milk bags you pervert. OMG now my head is spinning..."

But instead I just left, vital stats taken, jabbings accomplished.
Next step? Fight insane killer tunnel traffic going home. At 5 pm. Super Yay. Can't wait for her 6 month check up!

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