I am usually quite happy with my mothering performance leading up to a pediatrician’s visit. I almost always have the sense to take the first appointment in the morning or after lunch to ensure the shortest wait time and least amount of germs. I even have the foresight to prepare a lengthy list of concerns accumulated since our last visit.

I also have a short list of questions regarding my own recent medical oddities ready just in case the opportunity arises to work them into the conversation. I don’t expect a freebie diagnosis; I am mainly curious as to whether they are questionable enough to fork over $25 to my own doctor. This second list is strictly in my head and purposefully excluded from the official written list, just in case I get the surprise “Do you mind if I take a look at the list?” I am not about to explain that neither of my children actually has the occasional itchy nipple.

Kids in tow and list in pocket, I approach the front to desk to check in. Without fail, one of my children immediately places his or her mouth directly on the spot most likely touched by each and every person passing through the office. If we are there for a well visit, I very firmly instruct them under my breath to remove their mouth immediately. If we are there for a sick visit, I very vocally inform them to remove their mouth because no one wants their germs.

Once checked in, we proceed to our designated area. On well visits, we confidently enter the well waiting room. “You want to play with the toys? Sure, go for it. We’re in the well waiting room with all germs quarantined 15 feet away and behind glass.” My faith that we are in a sterile environment destined to keep us protected from having to return in three days with whatever virus we pick up lasts approximately five minutes. This is the point at which I notice someone has muddied the system and brought their sick child into the well waiting room, knowingly or not.

I do understand the desire to shield your child from the toyless, depressing void that is the sick waiting room. Just entering makes your shoulders slouch and your desire for small talk come to a screeching halt. Once in, we sit as far away from the other sickies as possible. Any children too young to control themselves from touching everything in sight gets strapped into my special on-the-lap, arms-around-the-waist mom restraining device.

My children quietly watch the child-friendly video until our name is called. Well, that’s what I imagine will happen anyway. In reality, the TV is either broken or playing an almost dead, lines running through it video of Disney’s “Hercules” (which is almost as bad as no movie at all). The child restrained on my lap squirms off after three minutes and runs directly into the path of whichever sick kid is about to let loose a horrific-sounding cough.

Once in the “real” room I realize, if I haven’t already, that I have actually come completely unprepared. The notion strikes me just as I smell an unpleasantness wafting from the littlest one’s diaper. I then put in my application for Mother of the Year by asking a nurse if they happen to have a diaper and some wipes.

How would I know to bring such a thing? I’ve only been doing this job for five years.

After the diaper fiasco, I cross my fingers that we have a bit of a wait for the doctor so that there is time for the stench to leave the air. I quickly regret my wish after five rounds of playing “Who Can Find What’s Red on the Wallpaper Border?” and three times reading The ABCs of Asthma. I soon begin to question whether the “No Cell Phones” sign means no talking on the cell phone or cell phones off altogether.

Allowing them to push buttons on a little electronic device is my last line of defense against allowing my children to crawl on the floor.

By the time the doctor arrives my children are crawling on the floor, and I’m perfectly fine with it. We get our gold star for a good well visit or our diagnosis of “virus you just have to wait out” and a friendly doctor’s reminder not to go reading about everything on the internet (he knows me too well).

I collect the sticky, half-eaten “reward” suckers on the way to the car and stuff them in my pocket. In doing so I find the untouched and un-relayed list of concerns I had so carefully prepared. Oh, well, maybe next time.

Shannon Szyperski and her husband Michael are raising two children in Sylvania. E-mail her at letters@toledofreepress.com.

This entry was posted on Friday, October 3rd, 2008 at 12:00 am and is filed under Family Practice.
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