Journey of Three Flights of Steps
Our old pediatrician was a bitch, who made one too many rude comments about the shape of my sons' heads. (For the record, their heads are perfect--even the neurosurgeon she referred us to said so. However, to paraphrase my mother, "I think there's something wrong with HER [the pediatrician's] head.")
Our new pediatrician is well worth the three flights of subway steps it takes to get to her. For the uninitiated, the New York subway system involves many many flights of steep stairs. There is no better sensitivity training for those who lack sympathy for the disabled. Because I had sex one Tuesday morning (what seems like) several years ago, it is now my lot in life to scale these steps with not one but TWO approaching-thirty-pounds each children, a stroller heavier than a Mini Cooper, and all their attendant toddler gear. This is actually a physical impossibility for one person. Therefore, I never go anywhere beyond walking distance with the two children unless I have someone else with me. And I usually have to wind up treating that person to lunch, just so I'm not blacklisted from the friendship pool after putting that person through such a grueling workout.
Today, I was lucky: only one son had succumbed to horrible diaper rash, so I was able to swing it on my own. The poor kid must take after his clotrimazole-stockpiling mother. When the recommended regimen of Bacitracin failed to do the trick, we headed back for a script for something stronger, more difficult to procure, and more expensive.
The pediatrician's office is located in a posh neighborhood. An incredibly beautiful posh neighborhood. I always feel a little bit inadequate when I walk through there, because I don't push a Bugaboo and wear jeans from Old Navy. Well, actually from Old Navy via the secondhand store, because I'd rather spend my money on cheese. But I digress.
Anyway, the pediatrician's office is a veritable United Nations of different languages. On the last visit, I conversed in Italian with a fellow twin parent. This visit, there were four languages going in the waiting room: regular American English, British English, Spanish, and French. What all the parents had in common was an extraordinary lack of sleep and a deep sense of regret that we hadn't ourselves invented Elmo and copyrighted him long ago.
We left with our prescription, a lollipop, and inspiration for an actual blog post. A good morning was had by all.
Our new pediatrician is well worth the three flights of subway steps it takes to get to her. For the uninitiated, the New York subway system involves many many flights of steep stairs. There is no better sensitivity training for those who lack sympathy for the disabled. Because I had sex one Tuesday morning (what seems like) several years ago, it is now my lot in life to scale these steps with not one but TWO approaching-thirty-pounds each children, a stroller heavier than a Mini Cooper, and all their attendant toddler gear. This is actually a physical impossibility for one person. Therefore, I never go anywhere beyond walking distance with the two children unless I have someone else with me. And I usually have to wind up treating that person to lunch, just so I'm not blacklisted from the friendship pool after putting that person through such a grueling workout.
Today, I was lucky: only one son had succumbed to horrible diaper rash, so I was able to swing it on my own. The poor kid must take after his clotrimazole-stockpiling mother. When the recommended regimen of Bacitracin failed to do the trick, we headed back for a script for something stronger, more difficult to procure, and more expensive.
The pediatrician's office is located in a posh neighborhood. An incredibly beautiful posh neighborhood. I always feel a little bit inadequate when I walk through there, because I don't push a Bugaboo and wear jeans from Old Navy. Well, actually from Old Navy via the secondhand store, because I'd rather spend my money on cheese. But I digress.
Anyway, the pediatrician's office is a veritable United Nations of different languages. On the last visit, I conversed in Italian with a fellow twin parent. This visit, there were four languages going in the waiting room: regular American English, British English, Spanish, and French. What all the parents had in common was an extraordinary lack of sleep and a deep sense of regret that we hadn't ourselves invented Elmo and copyrighted him long ago.
We left with our prescription, a lollipop, and inspiration for an actual blog post. A good morning was had by all.
Copyright 2005-2010 by Arabella and Trattoria Breve. All rights reserved. 1:22 PM
1 Comments:
Any day is a good day if I can get a good blogpost out of it, Arabella. And any day you have to lug twin toddlers up three flights of stairs means you got a workout in the process. So you can still remember enough Italian to speak it? BONUS!!
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