Barnabas Monkeypants

Yesterday was Henry’s four-month birthday. We had cake. (The two, however, were not connected. We just wanted to have some cake. So sue us.)

Him turning that age meant that we had to head off to the doctor’s office for his scheduled check-up, which included the not-painful-at-all measuring (weight, length, head) and the oh-my-God-this-is-the-worst-feeling-ever shots (two in each leg).

But before I get to the doctor, an aside. Yesterday and today have been extremely cold, unusually so for December. The high yesterday — the high — was zero. Today it was a balmy 5. This meant, of course, that when we got ready to leave this morning (the appointment was at 10), we bundled Henry up so much that he looked not unlike Sir Edmund Hillary on his trek up Mt. Everest. To wit, he wore a onesie (long sleeved, natch), a pair of pants, socks, a sweater, his monster footies, his bunting, a hat, and, when we finally put him in his car seat, a warm blanket over his knees. Oh, and a diaper.

Although he didn’t tell me himself (remember, he hasn’t started talking), I suspected he was good and warm.

Here’s the thing, after parking the car in the medical center garage and as I waited for an elevator (in an enclosed area, mind you), a woman told me that I shouldn’t take my baby outside in such weather and that if he breathes this cold air, it could hurt him. I smiled, thanked her for her concern, and then kicked her in the shin. (Okay, I didn’t smile.) But, really, who does this? Who tells a complete stranger that they are, in so many words, hurting their child? This is not a friend or family member (whose advice I welcome and take) — this is someone I’ve never met before.

And this isn’t the first time this has happened either. I’ve had people tell me that we’ve bundled Henry up too much and too little. We’ve had people give us dirty looks when we took him for a walk when he was really young (look, our doctor said it was okay! He should know better than you!).

Whew. That was some rant, eh?

So, back to the doctor. As I had written earlier, I have an irrational desire to see Henry creep up the percentile chart. Today, with his weight at 15 pounds 1 ounce and a length of 25 inches, he’s reached the 75th in both. (He’s there for head circumference as well, but we knew that already. He’s got quite the gourd.) That made me very happy. What follwed, however, didn’t.

Our appointment was originally for 9 this morning, but was delayed an hour. This meant that Kristen wouldn’t be able to go along and I’d have to do it alone. This wouldn’t have been so terrible, but our pediatrician was running behind schedule, so after the nurse came in at 10 after, Henry and I waited… and waited… and waited… With only his favorite stuffed mouse and my uncanny ability to make funny faces and noises to entertain him, Henry got bored pretty quickly.

And then he got crabby. So crabby that when the doctor walked through the door at ten minutes until 11, Henry was in quite a mood. The tears started right about the time the manhandling started (from the doctor… not Henry), and it never stopped. In fact, it got worse. After the doctor left and the nurse returned with the impliments of destruction (ie, needles), all hell had broken loose.

It was not pretty. There were wails. There were tears. Henry didn’t seem to care that these needles were there to help him, not harm him, and no explanations on my part did any good. He cried all the way to the car, where he promptly fell asleep, likely from scream-induced exhaustion.

We didn’t get home until noon, and I have to say that I left him in the car seat, all bundled up (and likely, as that one woman warned me way back, too much), asleep in the middle of the living room.

So what’s my point? I guess my point is that an hour of crying is not a great thing to experience (and did I mention that he cried for an hour this afternoon as well, his post shots grumpiness in full effect?), but I like to think that I never get frustrated. If I want him to stop, it’s not because I don’t want to hear him cry (it is a terrible sound), but because it just kills me that he’s unhappy.

Thankfully, pretty soon those every-other-month doctor’s appointments will turn into every-six-months and then every-year.

And my other point is we have a big baby. Viva la chubby!

This entry was posted on Monday, December 22nd, 2008 at 9:43 pm and is filed under Barnabas, Health. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.