Kyle is 342 pounds, 7 feet tall, and has body odor like a hairy teenager. He’s 97th percentile for height with no other discernible signs of early-onset puberty, so I just have to make sure he showers daily and uses a deodorant made with natural materials.
Also, the doctor had her first conversation with Kyle about his “privates,” and how it’s only okay for her to look at them because she’s his doctor and his mom was in the room.
Sigh. I wasn’t ready for how clearly Kyle comprehended the subject. His mouth twisted in an embarrassed smile. I flashed back to the first time I brought him to this doctor, nestled in his little infant car seat carrier, breathing city air and being exposed to sick children in the waiting room. I was an exhausted heap of new motherhood. Now I’m just an exhausted heap.
Meanwhile, Brady is 97th percentile for weight and perfect in his four-year-old-ness. He didn’t make a peep when he got his shots, and sports fancy new star-shaped bandages on each forearm. Because of this and despite their general misbehavior throughout the entire appointment, I took the kids across the courtyard for quesadillas and apple juice for them, shrimp bowl and big helping of gratitude for me.
Girl, I hear you on the uncomfortable “talk” business. My daughter is 3, and I just had to have a talk with her about not fiddling around with her bits unless she is in her bedroom or the bathroom, and to please wash her hands afterward. Then she said, “OK, Mommy!” and left the room. Then I put a pillow over my face and screamed.