Ode To A Pediatrician

I always like to think that our pediatrician has our best interests at heart.

Certainly, she earns the dollars she charges our family, as her phone is continually ringing on weekends.

“Hello?  Dr. B?  Yes, I KNOW it’s a Saturday afternoon, when you really should be out on the lake boating or sitting in a coffee shop, reading a thick book and sipping caffeine, but listen… Thing 2 has pooped out two marbles this week.  Two.  Marbles.  And… we don’t even HAVE marbles at our house, which means he probably found them at the park and ate them there.”

“Hello?  Dr. B?  Yes, I KNOW it’s Sunday night at 9:00, and WHY ARE YOU EVEN STILL AWAKE?  Because I’m barely staying awake myself, but listen:  The boy picked up a pile of dried grass to throw in the dumpster after mowing the yard, and… well... HORNET FAMILY RESIDENCE, and he’s been stung in the hand three times.  His hand looks like Wile E. Coyote’s hand does, after a boulder has fallen on it, and should we prep the helicopter to life flight him out?”

“Hello?  Dr. B?  Yes, I KNOW it’s Friday night, and… Oh?  Really?  You’re eating dinner at a posh little restaurant that serves wine and calamari?  Well, I’ll be quick.  Thing 2 just ate… as best as we can tellfour foam Nerf darts.  He didn’t eat the rubber tips… just all the foam.”

“Hello?  Dr. B?  Yes, I KNOW it’s Saturday morning, and… what?  You’re just getting out of the shower and you haven’t had your coffee yet?  Well, I do apologize for calling you PRE-COFFEE, but listen:  I know I’m no doctor myself, but I’m going to call STREP THROAT on the boy, and is there any way that we could get some antibiotics?  He’s throwing up, running a fever, and his throat is ridiculously sore.”

“Hello?  Dr. B?  Yes, I KNOW it’s another Saturday afternoon.  Yes…  It’s Mama!  Jedi Mama???  You know… ME!  It’s ME, Dr. B!  What?  You don’t speak English?  I SAID… IT’S MA… MA.  MAMA.  Okay… Just a second… I’m going to use my English-to-Spanish dictionary to translate the sentence, ‘Thing 2 was flossing his teeth with a foot of dental floss, and he rolled it up into a ball and swallowed it.’  Hold on… I just have to turn some pages here and find out the Spanish word for THING…”

We love our pediatrician, because she UNDERSTANDS US.  Except… you know... when I call on a weekend for the one thousandth time and suddenly find out that she has no idea who I am and that she only speaks Spanish all of a sudden.  She has put tubes down the boy’s throat when he was thirty minutes old, to get that little preemie of ours on a ventilator.  She put our little preemie on a flight-for-life plane.  She has seen us after hours, for no additional fees whatsoever, when we’ve had strep throat at 6 PM on a Sunday night.  She has checked out every rash my boys have had… and reassured me that I wasn’t necessarily a terrible mother when the boy toppled headfirst out of a Walmart shopping cart and nearly split his skull in half.  She’s patted me on the back when I’ve cried over the insecurities of SHOULD I VACCINATE, because I WANT to vaccinate, but some of my friends think I shouldn’t vaccinate and assured me that my gut instincts were right to get some protection inside of my boys against whooping cough.  She’s glued head wounds shut for us, seen us through the swine flu, influenza A, asthma, strep throat several times, horrid coughs, wicked congestion, bronchitis, pink eye and a solid peanut allergy.  She’s dug out free samples of inhalers for asthma, when our insurance decided not to pay for them… she’s proclaimed that our kids really ARE the cutest ones in her practice… and she’s marveled over every “trick” Thing 2 has asked her to watch (“Watch this trick!  Now watch THIS trick!  Now watch me do THIS trick, as I jump off your exam table backwards!”)…

So… you know… she’s basically part of our family.

Which is why I laughed out loud this morning when Dr. B tagged me on a Facebook post this morning, bearing THIS:

14212570_1167950903277089_3118720864702502355_nApparently, she remembered something about THIS happening at our house one morning, back when Thing 2 was clean cut and didn’t have thirty-six pounds of outrageous curls on top of his head…

13230160_10210047705649286_290321319816544606_nI think we’ll stick with Dr. B until Thing 2 turns twenty-one and she finally has to kick us out of her pediatric clinic, so that both of our adult sons can start seeing a doctor for grownups.  After all, we trust her.

She totally didn’t turn us over to DFS for that picture up there.

2 thoughts on “Ode To A Pediatrician

  1. Hah!! Can you believe that there are spy cam’s in that beautiful home of yours? Next time I’m having an all-Spanish weekend, come over and tango!!

  2. If there are spy-cams, you may also be subjected to medi-fact, a cousin to politi-fact. Like politifact, medi-fact has a nose for bovine excretions, and is going to rate you “pants-on-fire” for some of your egregious overstatements about your pediatrician. Who still gets a little PTSD going over that baby boy and his birth. And is so happy for you that he reflects the love and kindness with which he was raised.

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