Checked out at the Checkup

While Crabmommy knows she has a shockingly remarkable child, I'm afraid Crabtot had a most unremarkable annual checkup.

Far from leaving with pamphlets called How To Reason with a Gifted Child or Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful: Integrating your Stunning Child in a Sea of Aesthetic Mediocrity, I left the doc's simply knowing Crabtot was normal.

Now Lord knows I cannot stand the spawn-promoting mommy, the "we are so blessed" mommy, the "my child is so advanced" mommy. I've done serious mass-dissing of the edu-mommy, the "she speaks Spanish and Sign Language too!" twitmommy. Indeed bragmomming (and bragdadding) appalls me. But while I look down on such smugmom impulses, something happens to me in the doctor's office and hot damn if I don't want C-tot to dazzle the doc as she does me! It's ugly, but that's motherhood for you. Or at least, Crabmotherhood.

Crabtot didn't enjoy the checkup. She's been apprehensive ever since she saw that Elmo Goes to the Doctor DVD when in one scene a weird little girl, who looks and sounds like Janis Joplin, hisses the words "check up check up" over and over again (Anyone know who I'm talking about?). So at the pediatrician, the usually loud Crabtot clammed up. Or to put it in a less pc-manner, she appeared dense. Or as we say in my native South Africa, dof. When the pediatrician held up three fingers Crabtot appeared terribly confused by the number "three." Then she was asked the color of her shirt and her eyes glazed over. By now the uglymommy within was clawing at my throat. I almost said it, people, and I 'aint proud of that, and I'm triple-cringing as I write this, but at least I shut my mouth BEFORE blurting out, "She even knows it in Spanish! say a-maree-yo, Crabtot, for the LOVE OF GOD, SPEAK!"

Though Tot perked up at the end and we managed to leave without referrals for remediation, I have to admit, I was a bit bummed she hadn't blown the doc away. And I was also hugely bummed at myself for my shallowness. Yet again. The truth of it is, we want the doctors to tell us that our children are special. But really their job is to tell us our kids are healthy. The rest we already know.

Of course it may not be mere shyness/fear that inhibits tots in doc offices. It may be that by playing dumb they're outsmarting us. We want them to perform, and because they see through us, they refuse. Crabgrandma reminded me of my cousin who, as a kid, refused to play the game at a pediatrician's office. After many long minutes of questions answered monosyllabically he finally lobbed a kicker before the interview ended.

Pediatrician: "So, James, do you have any pets at your house?"
James: "No."
"No cats or birds or...dogs?"
"No."
"Oh, I thought you had a dog!"
"No."
"You're sure you don't have a dog?"
"No."
And then, finally, James changed his mind on pets: "Actually, we have an aardvark. Named Edmund."

Tomorrow at the bloglet: Utah Baby Names. And you thought Pilot Inspektor was bad.