A Little Poop Never Hurt Anything

+ enlarge

A recent trip to the eye doctor reminds me that nothing goes as planned when a small child is involved. In fact, 99% of motherhood is about letting go of plans.

Taking my baby daughter to the eye doctor seems like a fine idea since she sleeps between most feedings. And being the multi-tasker that I am, I plan to go to the eye doctor in the mall so I can see other humans, stroll through stores and eat the delicious tacos from the food court, all without having to load Baby Girl in and out of the car several times.

We head for the mall. Baby Girl is fed and happy, and I carefully plan our timing so I can feed her once in the nursing room before the eye appointment.

First I get my tacos. Delicious.
Then we look in a few stores. Still going strong.
Then it is time for her to nurse again. She eats like a champ and we head for the eye doctor.

All is still going according to my master plan.

I arrive at the eye doctor office, still in the mall, and the receptionist hands me a stack of paperwork to fill out. A large stack. A stack that pries into my family’s entire medical history. All I need for the doctor to say is “Yes, your current prescription is great, and you can order more contacts” which i assumed would take 30 minutes. This is not my first-eye-doctor-rodeo. These things are usually pretty speedy.

We are already about 20 minutes in, when the world’s slowest technician takes me back to the weird machine room. Another 45 minutes later, we have confirmed that tI’m not color blind nor do I have glaucoma. My clock is ticking for baby’s next feeding.

Finally they take me to see the actual eye doctor. I tell him that my prescription is perfect and if he could just confirm that he agrees, I’ll be on my way. The man is approximately 109-years-old and proceeds to school me in Texas State Law for optometrists. He needs to give me a full exam.

So there we are in a very small exam room. Lights turned out. Baby Girl is in her stroller in the corner, minding her own business. The 109-year-old doctor is flipping back and forth “Which is better? One or two? One or two?” Then Baby Girl unleashes everything she has ever eaten with the sound of a million whoopie cushions. When Baby Girl poops it can be loud. Thunderously loud. And we are in a dark closet. Me, Pooping Baby and the eye doctor.

The gentleman doesn’t acknowledge the ridiculously loud noise that just came from my tiny daughter, and continues “Which is better? 1 or 2?”

He proceeds through his painfully thoroughly exam, while I obsess about how badly I need to change that diaper. And from the sound of it, everything is not contained in the diaper anymore.

But not yet. Mr. Old Eye Doc tells me he has to dilate my eyes “according to Texas State law” and I won’t be able to see for awhile. I try to protest, but he has none of it. He puts drops in my eyes.

I’ve been in his office for over two hours now. My patience and my retinas are wearing thin. I can no longer see close objects. Everything is blurry, and I’m practically blind to begin with.

I ask the receptionist for the nearest bathroom so I can change Baby Girl’s diaper, and she offers up the optometrist’s back office. I’ll take it. So there I am, in this old man’s office with my daughter spread out on his even older desk. I open epicly poopy diaper that I can barely see, and I wipe what I think is her bottom. I try not to get any poop on his 1983 computer. The receptionst points out a few spots I miss and we close everything back up.

I go back into the doctor’s exam room so he can finish the exam now that my eyes are thoroughly dilated. I know feeding time is about to hit us quick. As if on cue, Gracie starts to scream. A scream that says “Feed me now. I’m only going to keep getting louder until you feed me!” The doctor doesn’t even flinch and proceeds with the exam. I ask him if we can finish in the next two minutes because I need to feed her immediately. He seems tremendously annoyed that I am rushing him (and his 3-hour-long eye exam!) and starts to wind down.

At this point, not caring much for office protocol, I ask the receptionist to open the back office again. I sit back in the doctor’s old desk chair, whip out a boob and feed my daughter. The screaming stops, and I relax into my enduring blindness.

I reflect on how my master plan didn’t pan out and that is ok. We are still alive. Baby Girl is clean and fed. I confirmed I am definitely not color blind and I got to eat my mall tacos. All in all, a good day, with only a little poop left on an eye-doctor’s desk.


Loading comments...