not so still lifes

Lunch at Chez Panisse. At first, the boy is sleeping. We get as far as the oysters, six, on a bed of ice, champagne and shallot mignonette, how can anything taste so salty and delicate and slippery-sweet?

“I can’t believe they are already over,” Scott says.

The boy is stirring in the bucket. I rest one hand on him. I feel a disturbance in the force. Diaper time.

I reach into the diaper bag, grab one diaper, changing mat, the pack of wipes. Sling boy over shoulder and march off to bathroom. Tiny tiny bathroom. So small, that a sign on the door warns patrons to enter slowly, as one could easily slam into the person washing their hands in the tiny corner sink. No changing station, of course. Two tiny stalls. Barely room to enter them. Slide body around door to get inside. Consider putting mat on the reasonably clean floor. But no room to manoever around toilet. Put toilet seat cover down (thanking God that it exists), mat on seat cover, balance baby on top, never letting go with one hand while kneeling and attempting diaper change with the other.

Boy is SCREAMING.

Discover it is a full blow-out situation. Ask woman in other stall to get diaper bag from husband. Which, thankfully, she does.

The rest of lunch, other than the waiter trying not to stare while breastfeeding occurs between courses, proceeds without incident.

* * *

Today we went to the new pediatrician.

The offices are just as cluttered as they’d been at our prenatal appointment. The clutter being one of the reasons we hadn’t wanted to go with this one. The waiting area is not as crowded as we remember. The front desk staff is exceptionally nice.

“Is this your first appointment with Dr. P?” she asks. “You’re going to love her!”

I fill out forms, am escorted back to a room with two plastic chairs, a yellow leather ottoman/bankette thing, orange vinyl topped and wood laminate exam table, sign over the scale saying “please do not play with the scale,” poster of an antique French cat food ad, with the corners ripped where someone had applied, and someone else removed, what might have been dinosaur stickers. One of those wire sculptures with the different shaped beads in primary colors is on the floor next to the ottoman. There’s a faint smell of spray cleaning fluid.

The nurse meets with us first. Weight, measurements. He’s 11 lbs, 4 oz and 24-1/2 inches long. She writes these notes down on a 3-month appointment sheet that lists milestones, things to watch for, and recommended reading; hands sheet to me to take home. She leaves the room, prepares the two vaccines we’ll be having at this appointment, returns with them on a tray, for the doctor, leaves again.

I am sitting on the yellow ottoman breastfeeding Jonah when the doc comes in. She’s sporting the koalas on her stethoscope, and a replica Brooklyn Dodgers t-shirt. She is lanky, thin, with curly, shoulder-length hair, and glasses. Her posture is not unlike a question mark. She rolls the round blue doctor’s stool over and sits down across from me. I immediately feel at ease with her.

We talk about Jonah’s fussiness, his spit-up, his hiccuping and crying in the middle of the night. She diagnoses mild reflux and says we don’t need to do anything if the swaddle and pacifier works, but suggests the fennel water or probiotics, if we want.

She explains in detail why the bump behind his ear is just a lymph node, what signs to look for in bumps that are something else. I show her his funny toe — She names it. “It’s a hammer toe,” she says. “It may or may not present a problem for him later. I can recommend an orthopedist if needed when the time comes.”

We talk about his rashes (despite my dietary changes and initial hopeful report, he’s still verrrrrrry rashy). She explains that it’s the dryness of winter, babies are sensitive. She says the zinc and A-D-E ointments are both good. She says to slather him up with moisturizer and don’t bathe him too often. She also reminds me to make sure I’m getting enough calcium since I’m not doing the cow-dairy.

We talk about his sleep patterns and routines (such as they are). All sounds good to her.

I mention our upcoming trip to Hawaii and she is genuinely excited for us.

For every item on my list of concerns, she has an explanation, and reassurance. She says to call if I have any questions.

I believe and trust her.

She, not the nurse, administers the injections, while Jonah is still sitting on my lap, on his furry blanket. I take a deep breath, relax my body while I hold him gently against me. He yelps, cries. She places a purple band-aid with dinosaurs on it on his injection site and leaves me to breastfeed again and get him dressed.

* * *

He’s alternately slept and fussed all day today, and is sleeping now.