Today was Angie's 15 month well-baby checkup. We drove to the office in relative peace, and once out of the car, Angie walked eagerly across the parking lot with me, through the two glass doors and into the elevator. Up to the first floor we went, Angie running with excitement in to the doctor's office. We signed in and went to the well-baby waiting room (as opposed to the sick-baby waiting room), where Angie played with the various books set out for children. She was happy and smiling right up until the moment we walked into the exam room.
Her apprehension was palpable as the nurse opened her file and began taking notes. When, after a few brief moments, the nurse set the scale and asked me to put Angie on it, I knew we were in for a rough time. As I tried to lower her onto the basket, she retracted her legs and clung to me with all her might...and that's a lot of might, if you know my little girl. Wresting her hands from my shirt, I sat her on the scale, wailing with fear and betrayal, reaching for me as I held her hands and stepped back a pace. It took almost two minutes for the nurse to decide that Angie wasn't going to sit still long enough to get a truly accurate weight, and so she chose the middle of the fluctuating digits -- 20 pounds.
Then it was off to the little padded table for a length measurement. Still screaming and gasping for breath, I laid Angie on the table and held the ruler at the top of her head, all the while trying to comfort her. She kicked and squirmed and wrestled with the poor nurse, who eventually called out a number which I was unable to assimilate. I think it was somewhere around 31 inches, but I'm not sure. And that probably wasn't an accurate measurement anyway.
Once the nurse left, Angie continued the hiccup-crying intermittently for the five minute wait for the doctor. He ran through his list of questions about her abilities while Angie rested her head on my shoulder, breath rattling in and out in jagged spurts. The despondent crying started again with the ear, throat, lung and heart check. And then, the needles. Laying her on the table once again, the doctor stabbed her twice in one leg, once in the other. She kicked furiously with the last one, causing the needle to slip out from under her skin and the doctor to exclaim, "She's a strong one!" and request that I hold her legs for this last shot.
I can't believe how upset she gets. I can't stop the crying with singing, talking or soothing. She begins wailing the moment the nurse comes in and doesn't stop until we're well away from the office. I feel so bad for her and wish there was something I could do to allay her fears, but I don't think there is.
Does everyone else have this problem? Does it go away?
1 comment:
I've never met a baby who likes being torn from her mother to be poked and prodded by strangers. Except for the weighing, during which time I try to be the picture of joy and love, I literally lay over my baby, snuggling and rubbing and just letting her know I'm still close. Basically, lots of touching, talking, praising (even if you are praising behavior she isn't having, like "Your being such a brave, quiet girl!") soothing, whatever it takes. Mine aren't usually too fussy about it, maybe because they're confused about my strange behavior! The weigh in is the only thing you can't have full body contact for.
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