Claire's 15 month check-up (I know a month late. We're working on it.) Check.
Lily's 2 month check-up (also almost a month late. freakinfrackin.) Check.
I hate the pediatrician's office. I mean really. I used to live in Arlington, VA which is really just an extention of DC if you ask me and while there were very few perks of living in such a metropolitan area (if there are more than a gajillion people living in a single block radius for the majority of a city it's metropolitan. moving on.) check-ups at the peds were one of them. First of all there were like 900 doctors in the office at any given time so our wait time was pretty much non-existent and for the most part they knew what they were talking about (Mr. Doctor man who insisted on calling my sweet little girl "him" the entire time, I am not referring to you here.)
I now live in the sticks. Which I love. Subject for another day. And our peds visits aren't run with quite the same clock-work expediency as before. The registration nurse calls me hun (which is kind of sweet) but cannot for the life of her figure out how to make a copy. Every. Time. I just need it for Flex. I'm sure I'm not the only one who asks. It's really not that difficult.
And every time I take my daughters there it's a two hour event. I say event because really, there just aren't words. Claire hates the doctor. With the passion from the fire of a thousand suns. Hates. Which leads to the inevitable meltdown at about minute 13 of our time in baby doctor hell. Lily usually lasts about 3.5 seconds longer than sis before her taking cue and coming completely unglued as well. There are cameras in those rooms (okay, not really). For I cannot think of any other reason as to why they would make us sit there for 45 minutes before gracing us with the presence of someone who has somehow managed to obtain a medical degree. It's like Big Brother. Only I'm the one who keeps trying to vote myself out of the house.
Only when I'm at complete wits end with two screaming babies will they send someone in and by this point there are almost always tears in my eyes and I am DRIPPING with perspiration. Without fail I get the "this is what you get for having your children this close together" look. And sigh.
Then the questions. And the answers. It's worse than taking the SAT. My kingdom to simply be comparing vocabulary terms again. Does my child do the crazy walk? Yes. Does she point and look at me then point again? Yes. Can she impersonate Leonard Bernstein and haw like a burro? Uhhh... At the end of our discussion she briefly noted that my child might be autistic and then moved on to Lily. Uh. Hello. Could we go back a space please.
Claire won't talk. She has a vocabulary of five words and seems reasonably contented to stay at this level for the rest of forever. She's happy, healthy, social, responsive, and delightful in every way (except in doctor hell) and because she can't write in chiasmus there is a chance she is autistic. My doctor is a moron.