I’ve spent countless hours in the pediatrician’s office, and I often wonder if this experience is universal or just specific to our doctor. Perhaps there’s a theory that parents of young children—who, let’s face it, are rarely on time—aren’t too concerned about keeping things running like a well-oiled machine.
Recently, I found myself in the waiting room with my daughter, Mia, before her six-month checkup. She was comfortably nestled in her car seat while I slipped into a blissful daze, courtesy of the perpetual reruns of Mister Rogers on the small TV in the corner. “Sure, Fred, we can be friends,” I muttered, admiring his cozy cardigan.
Just as the trolley was about to enter the Land of Make-Believe, another mom walked in, carrying a baby about Mia’s size. After exchanging the usual small talk—weather, age of our babies, and mutual admiration for their cuteness—she began to enthusiastically rock her baby’s car seat back and forth. The little one squealed with delight, capturing my attention.
Inspired, I decided to try a similar approach with Mia’s seat resting on my legs. Unfortunately, my attempt fell flat; Mia’s face conveyed a clear message of indifference, as if she were saying, “Couldn’t care less.”
As the other mom continued her energetic rocking, I noticed something unusual on Mia’s left ear—a small, dark spot that resembled a pencil-eraser-sized hole. That’s odd, I thought. Surely a hole in her ear would have been spotted by now, right? Then again, I did almost forget to put on shoes this morning.
Leaning closer for a better look, I found myself practically underneath Mia’s car seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the other mom and her baby moving away, perhaps sensing my concern. Upon inspection, I realized the dark spot was actually dried blood. Well, that’s a relief…sort of. Dried blood isn’t a great sign either! What kind of parent lets their baby leave the hospital with that?
Mia is usually a pretty chill kid. While I poked and prodded at her ear, she seemed more interested in her hands, as if inspecting a recent manicure. Thankfully, she didn’t appear to be in pain, and the blood was high enough that it didn’t look life-threatening.
As we waited for the pediatrician, I wrestled with whether to mention this discovery. If I confessed I just noticed it, I’d be labeled a bad parent. If I said I had known about it but did nothing, I’d still be a bad parent. And if I kept quiet and the doctor found it himself, I could be seen as trying to cover something up. What if he thought I was harming her like in a Münchhausen situation?
In the end, I opted for honesty (minus the part about mistaking it for a hole, because who needs more embarrassment?). The pediatrician examined Mia and was unfazed. “Oh, she probably scratched herself,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “Look, she’s about to do it again.” Sure enough, Mia was tugging at her other ear like a mini Carol Burnett.
“It happens all the time,” he reassured me. I like to think his following questions about lead paint in our home were routine, not just aimed at me.
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In summary, waiting for the pediatrician can lead to unexpected discoveries and a fair share of parenting anxiety. But with a little honesty and a sense of humor, we can navigate these moments as we figure out this parenting journey together.
Keyphrase: pediatrician waiting room experience
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