Today was Well Child Visit time at the pediatrician’s office. Love the pediatrician. Love his nurses. Hate the front office, but we love the nurses and the pediatrician so much that we put up with indifferent receptionists. 

I took both kids into the waiting room and dealt with the front desk headache. I instructed the children “Sit” and “Stay”. One out of two listened. A 50% success rate, which is about all I hope for these days. Firstborn sat down and watched everyone in the waiting room.  The youngest child ran laps around the waiting room. Nothing I can do about it because the receptionist keeps telling me “There is no appointment for a Ray-Ann today.” I tell her several times “Ray – GUN. Ray - GUN”.   She tells me there is no appointment for a “Ray –GUN Wilson” today. I tell her there wouldn’t be because “Ray – GUN’s last name is not Wilson. Wilson is the other child’s name.”   She's confused. 

Eventually we get straight. We get in. We survived the waiting room.

We sit in our room and the nurse (love her) tells me Gigi isn’t due for any shots and Will “needs a chicken-pox booster”. Booster. We have to call it a “booster” because my son is a walking thesaurus. He knows “vaccine”, “inoculation”, “immunization”, and “shot” all mean “pain”. The idea of a “shot” causes anxiety. The word “booster” had not yet become associated with “shot” because in Will’s world a “booster” is a seat you sit on in the car or at a restaurant.  Booster is associated with food or a car ride – not chicken pox vaccines. At least, it used to be.

The doctor comes in and asks how we’re all doing. Will preceded to inform our pediatrician that while we were waiting in the reception area several families stole books from the shelves. The doctor laughed and said “It happens.” I told Will not to worry about it. “But those books weren’t theirs.” The doctor tells him “There are worse things they could steal besides books.” Still, the boy has a very concerned look on his face. Now I know what he does in waiting rooms – makes sure the books don’t go home with those who are leaving. 

While the doctor checks Will out, Gigi found her wet wipes in the diaper bag and began cleaning the room. She cleaned the legs of the chair, then climbed up on a chair where she climbed to the sink.  She carefully and thoroughly wiped out the sink and the faucet. The doctor watched her for a while and said “Is she cleaning?” I said “Yes.” He said “She’s a little young for OCD.” I shrugged. 

With Will’s exam over, the doctor turned his attention to Gigi. At her 1 year appointment she didn’t talk. We discussed her surgery last April and the pediatrician said “She talks now, right?” I said “Yes”. I wanted to say getting her to not talk is the trick. Will piped up “She sings too.” Before I could stop him the doctor asked Gigi “Do you sing?” 

It’s important to point out here that if Gigi has an audience, Gigi performs. Gigi loves to perform. Gigi writes her own music. Her favorite self-authored song currently is what I titled Ode to the Hippo. As soon as the doctor asked if she sang, Gigi stood up on the table and put on a show in her diaper. She began singing rather loudly while she danced:

“Hippo-pod-nus! Hippo-pod-nus! Shake you bon-bon!”

Pediatrician looked at me.

“Did she just sing ‘Shake your bon-bon’?”

“Afraid so.”

“She’s singing a song she made up by herself and it’s about a hippopotamus?”

“Yes. Hippo-pod-nus.” I sang it. 

“Shake your bon-bon?” He asked.

“Correct.”

He started laughing. 

“Your house sounds like a lot of fun.”

I nod. I wanted to ask him to prescribe me something because of how much “fun” I have every time I hear Ode to the Hippo. It’s an instant headache these days.

The nurse comes in with a few needles. Gigi isn’t due for anything, but since we are in contact with a lot of recently arrived immigrants she needed a TB test and a routine blood test for lead, etc. The nurse asks “Who’s first?” Will, who lives in the illusion that going first means something good – because why would you ask who wanted to go first for something unpleasant – says “ME!”  Sweet, trusting soul that boy.

I tell Will to sit on my lap for “The Booster”. He questions not. He hops up in my lap and the nurse is in and out before he can have the anxiety attack. Of course, he has the attack after she’s done, so he stands in the corner whimpering and upset and angry that he trusted me and I didn’t protect him. 

I fear Gigi will see this and understand she’s next. She says “Willie crying!” She checks him out as he whimpers at death’s doorstep from the booster shot. I prepare for a wrestling match to get her up on my lap, but instead she hopped up on her own accord and pulled up her own sleeve. The nurse laughed and started the process. Gigi didn’t blink. She didn’t cry. She didn’t do anything but sit and stare down Will. She looked at her brother with the look that says “You’re a big dumb sissy!” She is woman, hear her roar. I briefly consider teaching her the song, but fear it will become an instant hit in her songbook. 

During the blood test  she treated the nurse to a round of Ode to the Hippo. 

“Hippo-pod-nus. Hippo-pod-nus. Shake you bon-booooonnnnnnnn.”

“Did she just say ‘shake your bon-bon’?”

“Yes.”

“Big Ricky Martin fans at your house?”

“Her dad is.” What Chris doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him.

 Both kids were sleeping soundly in the car by the time I pulled out on the main street. I breathed a sigh of relief that our next appointment isn’t until next February and by then Ode to the Hippo will be long forgotten. By then we may be treated to The Enterprizing Emu but that’s a year away.