Aug 26 2008
The Not So Hidden Danger of a Well Baby Visit
Personally I think it’s an ingenious ploy by my pediatrician to drum up more business.
The well baby visit. A trip to the doctors for a child who isn’t sick. So the doctor can see how perfectly healthy my baby is. So he can pat me on my back and tell me what a great mom I am for feeding my baby and keeping him out of traffic. These visits are crucial. How would I know if my baby was well, if a trained professional didn’t tell me so himself?
At least I’m sure my toddler was healthy when we walked in.
Babies generally don’t like to wait. Toddlers (who are mostly just mobile sassier versions of their infant selves) rebel violently against the strained civility of a physician’s waiting room. The lined up chairs, the glassy eyed moms, the occasional shriek from a tortured victim erupting from one of the exam rooms.
It doesn’t help that our particular pediatrician’s office does not have a single distraction to offer. Not a toy, not a book, not a soothing DVD. No. It has one empty fish tank with a sign taped to it that says “Do Not Touch The Glass” beneath a picture of a group of children touching the glass at a fancy aquarium. Now if I couldn’t read the words, I might assume putting my hands on the fish tank was the way to go. I’d be wrong and likely someone would be yelling at me.
But because I can read, I have to be the mom chasing her little bundle down telling him in a calm slightly uneven tone, not to touch the glass. Or the garbage can. Or the front door that leads out into traffic. And to stop laying down on the dirty germ laden floor and also not to lick the filthy butt germy seats or the toxic greasy armrests and to please please stop touching the door knob to the rest room. All the while sick children are being led or carried in and I’m thinking, why can’t they just cover everything in the room with that sterile disposable parchment paper? Or maybe provide some sort of body condom healthy children could wear to protect them from the aggresive viral strains that linger on every visible surface.
Even armed with two full bottles of antibacterial handwash and a fresh box of wipies, how would I ever win that battle?
That doctor, he knows all this. I know he knows, and maybe he even knows I know he knows. He wants my copayments, he wants me to come back in 7 - 10 days with a congested baby, looking forlorn. It gives him purpose. Or maybe it’s funding his next vacation to Maui or the Swiss Alps.
Yeah, I’ve got him pegged. He can’t fool me.
