Tuesday, April 10, 2007

He's a really nice guy, even if he is a poo doctor.

I took Katie to the doctor on Monday. She was out of school anyway, so we scheduled her semi-yearly checkup with the pediatric gastroenterologist.

Say that three times fast.

It must take some special sort of weirdo to want to be a pediatric gastroenterologist. Maybe that’s why Katie’s doctor is the only one of his ilk this side of Dallas. Gastroenterologists are basically poo doctors. When we entered the doctor's waiting room we were immediately greeted with the stench of dirty diaper. Ugh. Not much in the world smells worse.

Then some poor woman hauled in an amazingly pale, 8 or 9 year old boy, wrapped in a blanket. The kid was obviously unwell. As they signed in, she asked “Can we have a trash can please? It’s been a really rough morning.”

I’ll take stinky felons over puking kids any day.

Katie gets really nervous about her doctor’s appointments – it’s somewhat embarrassing for her. So, one day I told her not to worry about it – bo-bos are his business. She found that hysterically funny and it’s become her new doctor visit mantra: Bo-bos are his business. (Can I just point out – I usually don’t use obnoxious kiddie-words for body parts, but somehow ‘asses are his assets’ didn’t work as well.)

I think I may be the one who’s a little nervous about her doctor’s appointment next time. You can’t believe all the stuff they expect you to know about the kid. You have to squirt out her date of birth without even thinking. I know the month and day, but hell, I hadn’t even met her father until a nearly three years after she was born. She was three when we got married, so it takes me a second to do the math and figure out the year.

By the time I got it figured out (with the help of Katie blurting out “1996!”) the nurse was quizzing me about her medications. I thought I was doing well to remember the names of them, but she wanted to know dosages as well. What’s up with that? It’s a green pill and a brown pill. That’s all I know. ‘Hell, y’all prescribed ‘em. Figure it out yerself,’ I thought. I tried to play it off with a ‘talk to the kid – she’s your patient, not me’ attitude. I don’t think she really bought that though, and I’m fairly sure there were some comments about incompetent adult supervision added to the file.


Seriously – I am way behind the curve on this responsible adult business. The doctor told me her weight and height are on track. She’s starting to stretch out, he said. That I got. Then he went on with some schmaltz about her being in the 75th percentile. What is that about? Is she doing poorly on some sort of intestinal achievement test? Does she need glasses? Remedial reading? What?

I think I need a t-shirt that says something about “Not Officially a Parent”.

Somebody at church asked me a couple of weeks ago about when I was going to adopt her. Not if, when. If I’d known her better, I would’ve said “Well, hell! I never even thought about that!” Adopt her? Why? Is there something I don’t know?

I always sign her permission slips and medical forms and all sorts of other things that require a parent or guardian. No one ever questions it. And if they do, who cares? What are they gonna do, take away my PTA card? As if!

I like things the way they are. We’re on a first name basis – I call her Katie, she calls me Rachel. She sends mother’s day cards to her grandmothers. That’s cool with me.

She scares the crap out of me way too early in the morning by yelling “It’s EASTER!!” right into my sleeping face. And she gives me a bite of all her blizzards. I’m cool with that, too.

I’ve never wanted to be a mother and I’ve done my part by not contributing to global over-population. (My boss often leaves my office, shaking his head and telling anyone who will listen, “well, at least she never reproduced.” High praise, in my book.) I much prefer the role of bodyguard, chauffeur and official denier/granter of permission to do stupid stuff.

As we were leaving Big Flat City yesterday, we passed a few less-than-respectable joints. I asked her if she wanted to stop at one of them and get a tattoo. I told her I’d even pay for it.

She declined.

This time.


Mile High Pixie said...

I dunno; i'dve liked "asses are his assets" when I was 9!

And I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who's not a breeder around here. I told my husband he's not getting anything with his eyes and my hair out of me.

Cowtown Pattie said...

You sound like a perfect mother to me. I would have used "asses are his asset" for sure.

Our family members are world-class obscenity masters...

Presbyterian Gal said...

Ditto Miss Cowtown Pattie. You're a most excellent mom.

75th percentile means that you are a good cook and Katie is a good eater when comparing the average height and weight of children living in a prosperous and well fed country. If they added the kids in Darfur, she'd prolly be in the 95th percentile.

When folks ask me if I like being a mom, I say "No!, Are you nuts?, But I sure like being Ben's mom"

Princess of Everything (and then some) said...

*sputtering and choking while reading pg's comment* OMG...she SO does not know you Rach

~I’ll take stinky felons over puking kids any day~ AMEN Sister!

And I cannot talk Bebo into getting his ears pierced. Sheeze...what is up with NORMAL kids??

Presbyterian Gal said...

.....Ah.....dur.....um....was I at the airport again when the boat came in? You mean Rach is NOT joking? No? Damn. Just when I thought I was becoming a better judge of character! Next you're gonna tell me that Don Imus wasn't just joshing!

SpookyRach said...


Nope, not joking. Don't cook, either.

(Glad y'all liked the asses/assets version. Ya bunch of sickos!)

Michael said...

Oh where could we go from here...
Posteriors are his profession?
Butts are his bent?
Sphincter Specialist?
The anus is his area?
Rumps are his realm?
Poo is his province?

Oh somebody stop me!

Diesel said...

I can never remember dosages. Sometimes I just throw out a number and if they don't look at me with wild-eyed horror, I stick with it.

SpookyRach said...

You are my hero, Michael!

And diesel - Do they trust you with children, too? So sad.

jonboy said...

If that lady at church knew you better, she never would have asked you about adopting. She would probably shudder at the idea and tell Katie to run.

Here's one for Michael: Excrement is his excellence.

Songbird said...

You know, I never thought of any of that when The Little Princess had to go to just that kind of specialist. I was thinking "Tummy Doctor." Does this make me sound slow on the uptake?

Patti said...

Poop doc. Hmmm, that must be the ONLY specialist my kids haven't been to yet. I like you t shirt idea.

Mary Beth said...

From one stepmother to another...I say, you rock.

It's taking 3 of us to raise one 17 year old boy (mostly we have only succeeded so far because there are two to hold back the one who wants to club him to death at any given time!)

And agree with you 100% that there are plenty of people in the world...no more from me, thanks.

Rev Dave said...


Does it mean I'm a little slow if I really had to think about this phrase?

"I know the month and day, but hell, I hadn’t even met her father until nearly three years after she was born."

Took me ten minutes to figure out the stepmom angle and to stop trying to figure out how you had her three years before you met her dad.

I was leaning towards a Terminator-style time travel reverse conception when I finally figured it out.

Thanks for the inadvertant laugh.

(Word verification: zcusss. Is that something the french do?)

SpookyRach said...

You got it, Dave! Don't worry, you weren't the only one. Actually, I could've made that a little more clear in the post. I tend to forget that y'all don't already know my whole life's story. ha ha!