Let me set the scene. April. It’s a dreary, cloudy, windy, looks-like-it’s-going-to-rain-any-minute, day. I took my sweet, angelic daughter to the doctor today. We walk into the building and she wants to press the button for the elevator. Then she informs me no, she doesn’t. Then when I reach for it, she yells that she does. So, that happened. We get to the third floor with her having only a small freak out from the feeling of the elevator.
Standing in line, I realize I’m late by a few minutes for her 10 o’clock appt. and there are two people in front of me (cue the mental face palm). So I patiently wait to get up to the window while my lovely, wonderful daughter informs me that Tangled is on…oh joy. I get to the window and the nice check-in woman let’s me know that we’re still okay for time (cue the mental fist pump this time). I thank her, say sorry again, and go in to pre-pay for the visit. We go in there and I’m informed that, “Mommy, there’s the scale, can I go on it?” I say, “Not until it’s your turn and please get away from that baby so you don’t get her sick.”
We go back out to the waiting room and sit in chairs that are far enough away from the other patients, in case she decides to hack up a lung and cough on some poor, unsuspecting child. She tries to have a meltdown about having to sit where I tell her to, but I quickly pull out my mommy bag of tricks (aka my purse) and ask if she wants to color on the paper receipt. I swear it’s crazy how easy her mind goes from, No, I don’t wanna, to Oooo, you have crayons? I give her the crayons and silently thank every restaurant that has ever given us a pack of them and the nice little grandma who gave us the pink and black crayons at Steak and Shake recently. I found those babies in the second outer pocket of my magic purse. Score!
We color just long enough for me to get slightly comfy, and then they call her name and I try to pack up super fast. She has recently decided, just this week, that she no longer can talk to anyone, friend or stranger, unless it is with her face buried in my crotch. It’s an awkward experience for all. Now it IS her turn to use the scale, but guess who is clinging for dear life to me and saying no? You got it, Captain Fussypants herself. If they held an audition for Snow White, they’d have to seriously consider casting her for either Happy or Grumpy, given what minute of the day it is, and perhaps which way the wind is blowing. Anyway, I get her on the stinking scale after a few acrobatic maneuvers to get her shoes and coat off, and we get her weight and then her height.
I sit her down on the exam table and wait for the freak out. It must be coming. I mean, it’s been five whole minutes. The nurse practitioner comes in and it’s the same one as last time. Does the Captain remember this? Not really. I tell her it’s time for her check-up and thank you Doc McStuffins, because that phrase gets her the slightest bit happy and she willingly gets examined… until he tells her to take a deep breath. Then it’s back to the death-grip clinging. Perhaps she could be a koala in her spare time, when she’s not playing Happy or Grumpy.
We finish up and head over to get her meds. I hand in the slip of paper and the pharmacist tells me that it’s not a script, and that maybe they sent it in electronically, and could I please go to the next window and check? Sure, sure I can. I check with the woman at the computer and she says I’m all set and that it will be a few minutes. Hooray for me.
I walk over to the four chairs that are set up to sit with my mini dwarf/koala and she decides the seat next to me is not good enough. She also decides that her coat must come off. She moves down two seats. She then decides that her new seat is not good enough either and starts to walk around the little sign that says: stand here for the privacy of the patient, or something to that effect.
I have her come and sit in my lap again and while that happens, an older gentleman sits down in one of her “seats” and she eloquently declares, “Hey, that guy is in my seat” and then tells him to get out of it. I think I tell him sorry and I definitely tell her to be nice and that it is NOT her seat unless her bottom is in it. Then I plop her into the seat right next to me and away from the kind man. He leans over and says that he has a great-granddaughter the same age with “lots of energy”. I smiled and agreed.
While we wait a little more, I text my friend and see if she wants us to stop by. She agrees and I tell Captain F. the good news. I’m met with, I don’t want to go see her (mentally I’m bashing my head against the wall). They call our name while I begin to argue with her. I tell her to go up to the counter. Keep in mind when we first got there she had no problem with this task. Only this time the pharmacist says hello to her and that scares her, so she tries to run away and I catch her and hold her hand and she slips and ends up on her back. It probably seemed bad from any onlookers, but she didn’t hurt herself and it wasn’t a hard fall. It was more of a flop. Think NBA scale. It was very dramatic, and there was lots of flare, minus the ball.
I take fussypants back to the counter. The pharmacist is still trying to say hi. Why can’t people just ignore her like I do when she gets this way? I also put the weekly pill organizer that she somehow opened on the counter and tell him I’ll be paying for that too, since I have no idea how she opened it. He said not to worry about it because it happens a lot and then mentioned the glue not being strong enough. I immediately look at the little package and realize that he’s right, and proceed to tell him that… out loud. What the hell is wrong with me?!!!!
I thank the man, take her medicine, and head to the door. I then tell her that no, we are not playing the claw machine game. “Maybe next time”, I say. Miraculously, I get past that stupid machine without drama. Then I say, “Okay, let’s go to Calicoe’s!” To which she says, “No, I don’t want to go!” We go. She does the awkward crotch-cling. We don’t stay long, but by the end of the visit, she’s decided she likes her friend again. Calicoe, who really should get a medal for her patience, gives her a sticker. Not just any sticker, but a unicorn, glow in the dark, sticker.
She asks her where she’s going to put it and then suggests she give it to me. I think her intention was for her to let me place it, but instead I had it stuck to my cheek. With a little giggle and a lot of sympathy, Calicoe tells me that the glue is non-toxic. I think to myself, right now I could probably use a dose of TOXIC sticker glue. After that, I pick up lunch from the drive-thru, because I don’t even want to try and pretend that I want to make a grilled cheese at home. The girl in the window doesn’t even bat an eye at my unicorn cheek accessory. She must get that a lot.
I thank her, take our food, and try to remember the way home. We get inside and eat. The Captain does surprisingly well. I decide to raid the Easter chocolate after lunch. Somewhere among the chocolate wrappers is what’s left of my sanity. I’m pretty sure I’m digging well into my reserve stash. The crazy is just a hop, skip, and a jump away. My clingy, dwarven daughter is now in her bed, not asleep and taking a nap, no. She’s singing something. But I’ll tell you what, it’s quiet in the living room as I type this. I win…maybe. P.S. I kind of like the unicorn sticker.
Did you ever have one of those days where you realized too late that you should have just went straight back home? Tell us about it :).