Last Friday, I took my son to visit the doctor who delivered him! An added bonus: because of this preventative (preventive? grammarist.com says both*) visit, my employer won’t fine me $300 next year in premiums. A good visit all-around! The process of driving to the office, finding a parking spot, checking in, and seeing lots of pregnant ladies in the waiting room (with or without their significant others) was very surreal. I was there so frequently until the baby was born, but as soon as he was, their involvement was turned over to the pediatrician, for the most part.
I watched my toddler dance in the waiting room this time, noting his growth has seemed so fast, but feeling distant from this place as a weekly occurrence. There was a lot of familiar – the winding roads to get there, the scent of the professional-grade handsoap in the bathroom, the friendly nurses, the doctors flipping through my papers. But it was crazy to see specific images: the waiting room chair that I kneeled over, hours into labor, while other people (not in labor) were called back before me. Or the tiny room by the checkout desk where I painfully but eagerly waited, hooked by belt to a machine that recorded my contractions and the baby’s movement whenever I pressed a joystick. Where a pressurized machine exploded so fiercely beside me that I jolted and shrieked, forcing my monitor to record a severe peak on its otherwise-patterned line of penciled contractions. Just the calm before the storm. 🙂
The doctor seemed to enjoy seeing my son again, and even though I’m sure it happens all the time, I do remember him saying that he loves his job because all babies are miracles.
[Long-winded post here that I decided to cut. Maybe some day…]
Thankfully at this appointment, my miracle was his usual, happy self. On Thursday, he lost it so badly in the hair salon that my hairdresser couldn’t finish, and I overtipped her after he made the entire salon anything but relaxing for its patrons.
The doctor also said that I look great, my weight’s way under my pre-pregnancy weight (yay nursing + my running hobby!), my height hasn’t changed a bit (5’1.5″), and something about a half a cupcake is not worth running for, but wine is.
Right now, I’d imagine half-a-cupcake would be better than half-a-haircut.
*”Preventive is the original adjective corresponding to prevent, but preventative has gained ground and is now a common variant. The two share all their definitions.”