You had your two-month checkup this week, and it comes as no shock to anybody that you’re doing great. You weigh 12 pounds, 10 oz (not as much as I thought!), putting you squarely in the 75th percentile. I think the nurse mis-measured your height, though, because according to her you’re only 50th percentile. Your far-too-small 3 month footie pants beg to differ.
There was a bit of drama surrounding this checkup, since we had to switch pediatricians. We were very, very happy with the care you received at the previous office, chosen mostly at random based on their proximity to the house and the fact that the doctor was wearing a Hawaiian shirt on the practice’s web page. They seemed pretty chill and I appreciate that.
But they were a little too chill, as it turns out. I didn’t realize this before we signed you and Natalie up, but they do not require their patients to be vaccinated. Not only that, but due to problems anticipating demand for certain vaccines, they don’t offer most of them in their office. So we’d have to take you to the doctor for your well visits, and then go to the Health Department for your shots.
Ain’t NOBODY got time for that. And your dad and I are VERY much pro-vaccine, so when we learned all of that information there was really no question that we’d find another practice.
So we did. And we love your new doctor and we love that all the other kids that go to her office will also receive all of their shots. Problem solved.
At first I was nervous about switching pediatricians, mostly based on the very, very poor reasoning of but what will the first pediatrician think? And then I realized: I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t care if their office is offended that we’re taking you and Natalie elsewhere. I’m your mom, and this is MY decision: to do what I feel is right for you.
At the moment, you don’t care. You smiled your way through the well visit (except for the shots, of course, but you recovered quickly) and charmed everyone we met.
It won’t always be like that in the future. I know I’m going to make decisions that you disagree with, because you think I’m overreacting or freaking out for no reason or god mom it’s no big deal.
I know this, and I’m not sorry. Because I’m your mom, and it’s my job to make the unpopular decisions.
Your dad and I are doing our absolute best to look out for you, and we always will. We will put your well-being ahead of our own personal discomfort and desire to avoid conflict whenever possible (also, it would be great if I could somehow teach you to be more assertive than I am, since the thought of something as minor as sending a dish back at a restaurant makes me break out in a cold sweat), whether that’s conflict with you, a pediatrician, a teacher, or a playground bully.
We’ve got your back, baby girl. Whether you like it or not.