Medical Mamadrama

I took Sticky Baby to the doctor yesterday.

My brain is so tired of playing the ‘What If It’s This’ game, trying desperately to figure out why this child is suddenly chronically catnapping, rising way too early, tugging fiercely at his ear, smooshing his nose, coughing and generally being Satan-with-his-pitchfork personified.

(Clearly I don’t think my child is Satan..hold that thought...he is currently beating his high chair with a rake whilst smearing cream cheese into a toy. hmmmm).

This is my brain and the baby-related torment it is currently processing:

[Scientifically accurate diagram of Mama L’s brain]

Such is a mother’s existence. Constant worry about your child and wondering if you’re doing everything as well as you possibly could be and God damn it, too much information from the internet, books, and the crazy cat lady down the road (yes, I have taken advice from her before. Most of it relates to her feline companions, but I apply it directly to Sticky baby. Don’t other parents do this?).

So my gut is telling me that something’s up with the Sticky one. Surely he can’t be this feral simply from growing new teeth? It’s got to be something else.

Cut to the doctor’s office..

Sticky Baby loves the stethoscope. All smiles. Charmed the pants of Doctor Deschand.
Sticky Baby does not like tongue depressors. At. All. The first five minutes of the throat inspection were spent trying to pry the wooden stick thingy out from between his 6 teeth. He was biting down that hard on it.
Dr Deschand consequently decided that we should pin Sticky Baby down, to facilitate the examination.
Sticky Baby hates being pinned down more than he hates tongue depressors.
I tell you what, that baby was pulling out some serious wrestling moves. At one point he performed a half-nelson on Dr Deschand’s arm. It was good. I tried hard to suppress a laugh, but a noise akin to a yelping possum escaped from my mouth. Dr Deschand death-stared me, so I kinda made out that I was emotional over my baby’s obvious distress.

The doctor’s assistant, a burly brunette, was summoned to help pin down the 10-month old baby. Yes. 3 adults to hold down one infant. Though I really don’t count seeing I just stood there singing random french and english lullabies to soothe Hulk-baby.

Temperature was taken, ears were inspected and throat was finally examined. Sticky Baby was red, sweaty and trés, trés pissed off.

Turns out there was nothing wrong with him (You’re fired, gut instinct). One ear was ever so slightly pink (isn’t that the colour they’re meant to be?) so the doc prescribed some light-weight antibiotics, just ‘cause he can, and just ‘cause the french medical system is so awesome that you don’t pay for a single drug, ever. No word of a lie. My grand total at the pharmacy for antibiotics, nose cleaning spray, baby panadol and baby nurofen? A whopping €0. Merci beaucoup. Vive la France.

So there you have it. Sticky Baby is teething like a mo-fo. Again. My heart hurts watching him swat at his mouth, bite his fingers, drool every last millilitre of saliva from his wee body. Papadada and I have an arsenal of teething remedies at the ready. Frozen watermelon, cold wash cloths to suck on, and.... car keys. Disgusting, but at times like this, whatever soothes bub will have to do, no matter how gross it really is. Just one of those things you swear you’d never do BEFORE you had kids, right?

Oh, and we’re looking at enrolling him in baby wrestling classes. If I can find them.