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It's funny that the last post I wrote was all about gratitude, about how much I worry and how I work at reminding myself how lucky we are. I try to keep that gratitude in mind even as I'm gritting my teeth in frustration, I really do.

Well, Thursday's doctor appointment was a real tooth-gritter. I think I wore my molars down to irritated little nubs smaller than Elliot's baby teeth. Not at all in keeping with the blissed-out, we're-so-lucky mantra I've been repeating lately. The important stuff went well, don't get me wrong. Siena appears to be physically healthy and developmentally more advanced than I am.

We did get a referral for a follow-up eye test (curse our nearsighted family genes), but I had been expecting that since before she was born. At least glasses are kind of cool right now, right? As opposed to when I was younger, when the frames were HUGE and glasses automatically signaled Total Dorkhood. So all those good results were a huge relief. No major issues to worry about, except my precarious sanity. . . .  

We walked in to the appointment all smiles. We were early, I had toys and snacks for Elliot, Siena was fed and rested and ready to cooperate, and everything would be roses and sunshine (assuming she wasn't immediately diagnosed with some horrible disease or developmental delay whose symptoms had somehow escaped my notice). I had completely forgotten to worry about some of the more practical aspects of What Can Go Wrong At The Doctor's.

For example, Elliot's classic move: immediately upon arriving in the exam room, he takes a gigantic poop. This has happened every single time we've entered that office since his very first check-up, at the age of four days. (I remember Matt teasing me as I loaded the diaper bag for that first office visit: "Think ya have enough diapers, hon?" as I packed six or seven. WE WENT THROUGH ALL OF THEM, AND EVEN HAD TO ASK THE NURSE FOR ANOTHER ONE.) If Elliot ever gets constipated, I'll just take him over there and hang out in the waiting room for ten minutes.

So it smelled disgusting, and I couldn't change him right away because I was answering questions and helping with Siena as they weighed her, took her temperature, had her cover one eye at a time for the vision test, etc. And then when the nurse left and I changed him, the room smelled just god-awful for the rest of the appointment. 

Then Siena told me she had to go potty. Thinking it would be best not to bother anyone at the nurses' station, I just walked right by and into the bathroom with her without telling our nurse where we were going. I WILL NEVER DO THAT AGAIN. I didn't know, didn't remember from last year, that they wanted a urine sample. The doctor and nurse seemed to take this oversight pretty hard; they were disappointed in me; they had expected better, I guess. Their faces fell when I told them that she had just gone potty. I apologized profusely. Desperate to make it up to them, I suggested that we try again at the end of the appointment. Siena usually has to go potty every seven minutes or so when we're out in public (particularly when the nearest restrooms are disgusting or if we're in a movie theater), so I figured it shouldn't be a problem. That was when someone said, "You mean before or after the shots?" 

They may as well have jabbed a needle into her right then and there. Siena started whimpering, then all-out crying, and did not regain composure for the rest of the appointment. We tried to go potty again and the urine sample cup made her cry. Not having to pee again yet made her cry. Having to wash hands anyway made her cry. Then she screamed when they poked her finger to draw blood. SCAH-REAMED. This caused Elliot to take a break from systematically dismantling every piece of medical equipment he could reach, and join in. If Sister is screaming, it must be bad. I had both of them on my lap, one screaming into each ear, when the nurse said, "I'll be right back and we'll do the shots." Needless to say, the screaming intensified. You probably heard it. Jupiter probably heard it.    

They did the shots, one in each leg, and they gave me some handouts and said some other stuff that I couldn't hear over the ongoing screamfest. Siena stopped crying long enough to ask for a prize, and then a sticker, as I gritted my teeth to a powder and held onto Elliot by one leg, trying to keep him from opening all the drawers and scattering band-aids and sterile gauze all over the floor. (He was still crying fiercely, but no longer wanted to be held.) We finally got out of there, me carrying a kicking and screaming Elliot, a urine sample cup and plastic "hat" thing that you set in the toilet to hold the sample cup, plus some medical handouts and the bubbles Siena had chosen for her prize. She followed behind, lamenting her misfortune at the top of her voice and stomping instead of walking.

"I am NEVER  going to another DOCTOR! EVER! A! GAIN! EVER! And I am NEVER getting shots next time! NEVER!"

Elliot made a desperate lunge for freedom as we approached the car, and I almost dropped him, in front of several people in the parking lot (none of whom were hanging onto screaming children by their fingernails). About that time, Siena asked me to carry her. You can imagine how that conversation went.   

Healthy kids. For that I'm grateful. But there's no way I'm taking both of them to the next check-up. Too much healthy screaming.