The Destroyer Needs a Vet, But My Doctor is a Hobbit

by Cookie


Yesterday was time for the Destroyer’s 18 month checkup at the doctor.  I love going to the doctor with her.  It’s a chance for me to show off the wonderful little sprite I birthed and have doctor tell me what a wonderful job I’m doing.  Time to show off my exemplary parenting skills with my sweet, well behaved toddler.

Yeah.  Ok.

Let’s pretend for a minute that it hasn’t been minus-jesus-effing-christ-it’s-so-cold out for over a week. Let’s pretend the lack of outside play and other outings hasn’t made the child half insane with excess energy.  Let’s also pretend that I didn’t give her another fucking donut for breakfast after the one the day before turned out to be a HUGE mistake.  We were in a rush to get there in time, and I panicked at breakfast, ok?

So we got there, and to my surprise, my doctor wasn’t that far behind today.  Not too long a wait, much to the Destroyers dismay.  I actually don’t know how my doctor ever gets behind anyway.  She is the fastest human being I have ever met.  She is about half my size, Chinese, and hasn’t aged a day in the 20 years I’ve known her.  I’m pretty sure she’s from Hobbiton, although I’ve never seen her feet, and I’m not sure that Hobbits are allowed to be Chinese.  Anyway, she’s feisty, matter of fact, and totally fucking awesome.

There’s a long hallway just outside the waiting room with no danger of escape.  So the Destroyer gleefully ran screaming up and down the hall, pulling one toy or another with her while all the other children sat on their chairs, played with one toy, and wondered what the fuck was wrong with my kid.  I’m pretty sure the rest of the parents thought I was there for  Ritalin prescription.

Then it’s our turn.  God help me.  She did NOT want to lie on that fucking counter.  Not today, not later, not tomorrow, not ever.  She resisted by curling her little hands around what part of my hair had fallen out of my ponytail and lifting all 22 pounds of her delightful self up to a standing position.  Thank God I had gone for the “messy” look that morning.

So then, as she’s still screaming and totally naked, the nurse is sorta ordering me to get into the exam room because the Doc is ready for us.  Umm.  Did you notice that it’s still naked and did I mention it’s not potty trained?  Can I put her fucking diaper on at least?

The answer is no, declared by my child as she stood on the counter and screamed blue fucking murder.  So I tried to put the diaper on while she stood up, put her down on the floor and let her waddle into the exam room.

While I scrambled to pack up her crap and she miserably trotted down the hall with a giant diaper wedgie and and some crocodile tears.

Why is she so mad, the doc wanted to know.  Seriously?  She’s naked in public and you’re gonna stab her with sharp things.  Other than that, I don’t fucking know.  Did she want the sucker now then, instead of after the needles?  Yes, motherfucker.  Put something in her mouth to make the noise stop.  And can I have one too please?

So we made it through the exam as best as possible, with the baby screaming at me the entire time.  Was she talking?  The doc wanted to know.  Do animal sounds count?  I retorted.

Amazingly, they do.  So my child is perfectly normal, despite my tries to explain all the exceptional things she does. Apparently it’s normal for children of musicians to express themselves musically first, instead of verbally.  I think she was shitting me.  Trying to make me feel better that my diaper-halfway-up-the-crack-of-her-ass child is saying Woof and Ahoooo like a pack of dogs instead of words.

I think this kid needs a little less time with animals and more time with other children.  Otherwise I might just get her a loincloth and a rope and a banana, and let her have at it.