A couple of weeks ago, I had to take the Mini over to CHOP to have his feet looked at. See, back at his fifteen month appointment, I meant to mention something to the pediatrician about the fact that he’s slightly pigeon toed, but after the words “red flags for autism” were mentioned, I don’t know, I kind of blacked out and everything else that was in my brain, ever, seeped completely out of my ears. So I forgot to mention it, naturally. I ended up taking him back to the pediatrician at 16 months because he had a spot of poison oak behind his ear and after the Meester’s experience with being a giant blister last summer, he’s kind of paranoid. After we assessed that he was fine and also improving a lot in regards to his weird behaviors, she made mention of his in toeing and gave me the number for CHOP. Hooray! Another visit to CHOP.
Thankfully, there’s an office close to us, so I didn’t have to haul an impatient toddler all the way to the city. That tends to tie up your entire day, not to mention, I could do without a bucking session in the car seat. We get to the office, sign in, wait for them to call us. The Mini wants no part of sitting still at all, and there’s limited amount of sick infested toys for him to play with and for once, I came sort of unprepared. They call our name and hand me 47 forms to fill out. With a toddler, that I can’t get to sit still, ev.er. There is no duct tape or chains to tie this kid to anything. Looks like I’m not going to avoid that bucking session today.
So with a bucking toddler on my legs, I try as hard as I can to half assedly fill out the forms. I’ve got the Mini balanced on one knee while holding my iphone in my hand, so that he can watch some Elmo videos on youtube. In my right hand I’m balancing a clipboard, and am
stabbing myself with a pen on a 2 inch chain filling out the forms.
There’s a woman sitting next to me with an pretty young infant. Maybe a few months old at the most. She’s looking at me sympathetically, and I thought she might take pity on me and offer me some vodka. It turns out she was nowhere near sympathetic, instead, masochistic, as she thought it was a great idea to strike up a conversation with me, because for some reason, a screaming toddler is an invite to tell me your life story. As I tried to ignore her, she tried to make idle chat about her daughter having Cerebal Palsy, “is that the new iPhone?” (mmmhmm) “what are you in for?” (similar to being in prison) “it’s been a really hard 12 weeks.” (mmmhmmm). “I don’t mean to be a jerk, but the wait times are really long.” (oh.fuck.ME). Between this and the fact that the Mini was “that kid” in the waiting room, screaming at the top of his lungs, I trying to use that pen chain to make a noose.
It was at that moment that I called the Meester and hissed into the phone “you need to be here ten fucking minutes ago.” And like a knight in shining armor, upon his trusty steed, Dada brought snacks, books and his beloved EeeTee.
And the Mini only has mild tibial torsion, which requires no therapy, which means I never have to see that lady again.