C,

Think it’s time to get a new doctor when you’d rather take yourself off to the Emergency Room, than visit your own creepy GP? Agreed, my reluctance to see him may have something to do with the fact he has me pegged as a complete hypochondriac, but how was I to know that the apparent gangrene in my foot was in reality just a broken toe? Or that my six year old daughter’s spectacular ability to throw up before bedtime was not caused by a precocious case of bulimia, but by over-consumption of popcorn? Naturally, I prefer to think my objections have more to do with the fact that he is one of those MD’s who tells you to put your clothes back on after an eye exam, but frankly, that was kind of a cheap thrill for this desperate housewife. Suffice to say, having emerged, triumphantly, from ER with a diagnosis of a chest virus (hey, it could have been Ebola), I will be making all appointments through my Ob/Gyn from now on. At least he has an excuse for giving me a pap smear every time I come in complaining of a sore throat.

Faithfully,

P.

P,

I definitely feel your pain.  Youngest child’s pediatrician reminds me why it is important never to assume that having the initials M.D. after your name means you possess a shred of common sense.  Was amazed to learn she is, like me, the mother of four–although her failure to remember us each time we visit does remind me why it is difficult to combine all these children and a so-called career.  Cherub’s dr. is currently possessed of the notion that my fifteen month old’s petite size is a direct result of her mother’s (not father’s or care provider’s, mind you) reluctance to feed her.  This is the child, remember, who refuses all food after four or five bites no matter how tantalizing or high fat those choices may be.  Unfortunately, Dr. Strangelove persists in believing that we are only one weight check away from needing the intervention of a nutritionist who can show me how my conspiracy to make our daughter anorexic is wrong-headed (does the dr. or nutritionist take darling baby home for the duration for feedings in order to prove me wrong?).  Protestations of good sleeping habits and normal (o.k. accelerated) development seem to make no difference, nor do excessive medical tests showing no abnormalities.  Having raised three older petite children to survive toddler hood and even early childhood is apparently no indicator of my good faith efforts and dare I say it, good mothering.  Alas, I am, as she repeatedly suggests, just lucky to have found her support and help with my youngest.  I am so grateful, P, that darling youngest isn’t my first, as I may have become as neurotic as so many other first-time D.C. moms.  May I boldly suggest, dear P, that it’s not all their fault?

Faithfully,

C.