That Mom

If you've read this blog for any length of time, then you know that my kids get sick a lot. I'm not even going to try and track down all the previous posts on our various illnesses; just believe me when I say that we get sick a lot.

Like, all the time. Like, we have been stuck in the house, all three kids very, very ill, for 2 solid weeks now.

I don't know why. They are very young, very close in age, and they all still tend to have their hands in their mouths--that probably contributes. Sure, they stay home with me, away from other kids, but their daddy does teach at a university, so no telling what he brings home. And maybe, just maybe, we're all just wussy sickies at heart. This, despite the pain it causes me to admit, might be true.

So we go to the doctor's office a lot, especially during the October-April range. Shoot, even May is fair game, since my children are prone to seasonal allergies at all times of the year. There are 4 doctors at our pediatrician's office, one of whom, Dr. O., is their primary physician. They see two of the other doctors fairly regularly, too. At this point in time I know most of the nurses by their first names, and they can chatter happily with my children about personal details, like their favorite stuffed animals and preferred stickers. I know which exam rooms are painted which colors, and I have the routine of the exam memorized.

Am I successfully conveying the fact that we are intimately familiar with our doctor, his colleagues, and his office? Okay, good.

Suffice to say, I expect each time we visit to get easier and easier. I can understand tears when they were very young and very ill (both boys had 7 ear infections each during a 4-month span in their first winter--Shoot. Me. Now.) I can understand being scared of being prodded and poked. I can understand Baby C freaking the heck out when a nurse flushes out her ears with cold water.

All this I am ready to accept and endure.

But. But.

It doesn't get better. It never gets easier. If anything, it gets worse. My children, instead of growing more used to the doctor's office, more mature and able to understand its function, become more and more nervous, more and more terrorized, and more and more prone to screaming tantrums each time we visit.

And I? I am at a loss.

When we go to the doctor's office, I become That Mom. You know the one. That Mom is unable to control her scads of screaming kids. That Mom can't get her brood to move more than 2 inches in a single minute, such is the severity of the multiple tantrums. That Mom is weighted down with diaper bags, heavy winter coats, drinks, books, snacks, and clinging, crying children. That Mom looks frazzled, exhausted, and perhaps like she hasn't fixed her hair in several days. That Mom shoots apologetic glances at everyone else in the waiting room (who are, it should be noted, glaring at her in needless condemnation--she's already scarlet with embarrassment) and says inane things like, "Oh, they all need a nap" or "They're never like this, I swear!" (And really, mine never are--they are well-disciplined, mindful, respectful children, at least outside of a doctor's office.) And no one believes her, because clearly she doesn't have a handle on discipline, control, or even proper personal hygiene.

That Mom.

That's really how it goes, I promise you. I am so tired, so angry, and so embarrassed by the time we are through that I just want to leave my children watching Sesame Street in the waiting room and drive away for a while, perhaps to get a soothing cup of Starbucks and a newspaper. I don't often entertain the idea of abandoning my children, but a doctor visit is a special exception.

So imagine my delight and surprise when, this past Monday, my husband volunteered to take two of our children, B and his sister, to see Dr. O. Both had caught whatever nastiness J was getting over (turned out they all had bad upper respiratory infections), and it was clear they needed antibiotics to start feeling better. I had been steeling myself all morning for their early afternoon appointment, putting together a battle plan and garnering the proper books and toys to try to stave off the inevitable high drama.

When The Professor came home from work early and said he'd be happy to do doctor duty, I looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"Are you sure?"

He smiled the smile of the Totally Clueless. "Yeah! I mean, you need a break and some time with J. And really, how hard can it be?"

I smiled. I love my husband, but he is prone to uttering some doozy Famous Last Words.

"Sure," I said. "I have the bag all packed. I'll write down what you need to tell the doctor."

I knew he was going to have a rough time as soon as he started to get the kids ready to go. Both left screaming, before they had even crossed the threshold to go outside, and were still screaming as he stuffed them in their car seats.

J and I proceeded to have a lovely couple hours together, playing and chatting and snuggling, before Dad got back with his sniffly, snuffly brood. I helped him bring in the kids, who were both crying and whining, and nonchalantly asked him how it had gone.

He shot me a look of terror. "Oh, it was awful! I mean, just terrible! They never stopped."

I nodded knowingly.

"And it was like nothing I could do, nothing, would make them stop. They were totally and completely out of control."

I continued to nod sympathetically, but inside, I was smiling. I would never tell him, but it was nice, just for a chance, to not have to be That Mom.

Instead, I was smiling at That Dad. That Helpless, Hopeless Dad.

I'd be lying if I said it wasn't nice.