Wouldn't you know it....the morning we have a doctor's appointment for Ava, Alessandro wakes up incredibly early: 5:45am, about 1.5 hours before he usually does. Now my timing for the day is totally off. Yet, we have the doctor's appointment, a pretty important one at the ENT as Ava is slated to have a abenoidectomy next week. So, off we go, three kids and a mom.
There is a large waiting room at this office and it's is really nice. Ava remembered that there is a television that plays cartoons ("Ice Age" was playing last time, she reminds me) and a toy box when we're all finished. It's big enough for a bunch of toddler toys and a Montessori-style wooden table with 4 chairs (the kind that has the colored beads on wire tracks all twisted up like parallel roller coasters) to sit on one side, a small library of children's books in the middle and the flat screen TV (currently playing the news) on the other. Bettina goes for the kids' books; Ava sits on one side of the wooden table and starts pushing beads from one end to the other; Alessandro copies Ava from the other side.
After watching them, I say aloud "I think we're going to stay here all day," to the receptionist. "It's the quietest they've been all day!" I drink my cup of coffee and think that perhaps we can make it through this appointment despite Alessandro being overly tired and just primed for a melt-down.
Soon (too, soon), Ava's name is called and we're crammed into a small exam room with only 2 chairs and a ton of expensive doctor equipment just about eye level for kids. Now, it's about here that I should have turned around and said, "Is it OK for us to wait in the larger room until the doctor is REALLY ready?", but, I assume (stupidly) that the doctor must be close to being ready to see us because we were escorted here to begin with.
The first 3-minutes were spent trying to fairly figure out just who, out of the 4 of us, get to sit in the 2 chairs. The kids all try various combinations of cramming together, pushing and shoving ensues and Alessandro shrieks in protest when he can't have one to himself. After I create a system of "fairness," Alessandro leaves the game, walking over instead to the doctor's tools. He somehow manages to turn a light on one of the instruments and smiles with pleasure. Picking him up, I try to distract him pointing out the posters on the wall asking them to find their ear (nose and mouth). Bettina then discovers (accidentally) the lever that makes the patient's chair recline and Ava falls back suddenly. The room explodes in kiddie laughter. I start to realize I'm losing control and wonder when this doctor is coming into the room.
Twenty-minutes later, I'm angry and talking to my kids through clenched teeth, just trying to keep them from playing with all these expensive gadgets and tools. Finally, the door opens and in comes the doctor.
Now, Ava's ENT doctor is a tiny man with a meek disposition who's completely calm, organized and speaks in a whisper - essentially the exact opposite of the crowd he has waiting for him in his exam room. He does a good job of pretending he can talk to me and ignore all the chaos of the kids around me, however, I can hardly hear him and it takes all my concentration to focus on what he's saying. Frustration wells up inside me as I try to bat away the noisy kids who ask me questions, crawl on me or attempt to take something off the doctor's cart. I'm a little conscience of what this quiet doctor thinks of me and my crazy kids as they were the same way last time we came. Then I wonder if he even has any at home with whom he could be comparing mine.
He opens the door, releasing my kids who wildly run down the hall without me in search of the toy box. As I trot to catch up to them, he says, "You are sure a busy mom!" I feel like I need an excuse for the ruckus.
Driving back, I reflect back on the visit and wonder how to have a decent conversation with a doctor. Why is this doctor's office so difficult all the time? And, then it dawns on me....the exam room is just too darned small!! Kids, given a small space to wait, become like rats. They were happy enough in the large waiting room where they had individual space to work on their own activity. But, bound in a small closet for an extended amount of time, they back-bite, trample and become loud. Perhaps, then, doctors could create a special "large-families" room, sort of like the handicapped stall in the bathrooms; a room that's just a little bit larger to accommodate our special needs. Or, perhaps, the next time we're there, I'll just ask to have the conference in the waiting room where there's enough room for my rats to roam.
