My husband has a masters degree in Higher Education. His life is working with other peoples children. I have always been so proud of Brian's masters degree. I used to try and use it in everyday conversation with any old uppity sorority sister who dared to believe her boyfriend could stand near the same pedestal as my man.
"Oh, so Jimmy just made VP at the accounting firm? You know...I would've called to congratulate him, but with Brian graduating with his masters degree and all...."
Around week 37 of pregnancy, like most women, we had chosen our pediatrician. I arranged a meeting before the birth in order get acquainted with the office, meet a doctor or four, and who knows? I had grandiose visions of how impressed and honored they would be that the world's best future parents had chosen them, yes them, as the health care providers of the child of the century. They'd probably roll out a red carpet with alcohol free champagne for all and chocolate covered strawberries as their most coveted patients entered the building.
Yeah. That didn't happen.
We spent the first 45 minutes of pediatrician heaven sitting in the "well" lobby with children who were anything but, and parents who had reached their wits end evident by the blood shot eyes and purses exploding with booger coated Kleenex.
We read every pamphlet in that place while waiting. How to bathe a child properly as recommended by the national pediatrician's association. How to change a diaper as recommended by the health department. How to put your child to sleep properly by the local sleep center. How to keep your child from getting the swine flu while cooking a pot of Betty Crocker chili as recommended by the center for disease control...you get the idea.
Finally, a pink faced, five foot two, size 24 squeezed into a pair of size 12 scrubs Hispanic woman emerges from the back and attempts to yell our name.
"Nieeeeeest!!!"
That must be our cue
Without apology or introduction, we follow Maria down the long hallway while in broken English and Spanish, she demands the location of this and that chart, when room number two is going to get clean, and for God's sake, why in the hell has Papa John's not delivered her pizza yet---her blood sugar is getting low.
We go into an exam room meant for children and are instructed to sit on the plastic chairs designed for parents who love sitting in uncomfortable chairs meant for children who aren't over 90 pounds.
Maria sits on the steel chair that is meant for 90 pound adults and if steel could cry, then that chair was reliving Auschwitz.
"Ok...you see your book? You open it here" she instructs.
Is she really illustrating how to open the damn lobby pamphlet???
She not only showed us how to open the pamphlet, but read it and explained each line for the entire 20 pages.
Maria continued for the entire 40 minutes telling us how to change a diaper, put a baby to sleep, avoid swine flu, and how to make chili. Okay, scratch that last part.
For most of the session, Brian's face ranged from a deaf, medically induced coma man to just plain dead. Halfway through her spiel, Maria begins to have an asthma attack. Her face went from caramel to strawberry, to grape. She went directly into the room next to us and grabbed an inhaler. An inhaler unopened and meant for asthmatic patients. This was a sample---a sample which is given to patients. Paying patients. We had just witnessed workplace theft.
However when Maria leaned close and raised an eyebrow with what she said was going to be some "serious advice", we were ready to take notes. I went through my purse and actually got out my pen. Now we were going to hear what we came to learn. This was going to be the stuff only given to graduate level honor students. Let's cure cancer, people.
"Okay....you have boy? Yes, you have boy. You see now....once you remove de' diapers, you look vewy, vewy carefuwy at de boy testes. When de baby poos poo, you sees, de' poo poo, es can get wealllllly little behind de' testes. You must look under de' testes and get de' poo poo. Understand?"
You have read correctly. This lady is actually telling us how not to leave shit on our baby.
Before we had even left the facility, we had chalked this experience up to having a non English speaking Medical Assistant who obviously didn't know the type of caliber parents she was dealing with. I mean, they give those sessions to everyone. To anyone. We, however, are clearly not everyone, and certainly not just anyone. She simply wasn't professional enough to see this.
Six weeks later Brian and I are cooing and awing over little two week old Daniel. When we don't cover him up, he pees all over us and its still precious. When he burps and spit up goes across the room like Diet Coke with a mentos dropped in, this is to his parents the stuff gold is made of. And his poop has yet to develop an odor, so its still cute to change diapers.
I'm taking yet more pictures of Brian changing Daniel's diaper while making baby talk and silly faces at our baby when during the last few moments before the new, dry diaper closes around Daniel's tummy, I notice something.
What....? Brian didn't get the......???
"Brian, what is that?"
Brian reopens the diaper and looks at Daniel's boy parts. At the family jewels. I'll be damned.....and there it is....right under the.....
Damn.
And to think.....he has a masters degree.
lol.....:)
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