Diggy and Conner at the Doctor's Office

Subtitle:  Nana would have remembered to bring a spare diaper

Since I now have the dubious distinction of being the only person in the house without a job, I am learning many new skills.   And as schedules of the employed intertwined like kudzu, I found myself picking up Conner from daycare and taking him for a doctor's visit.  

Being a capable fellow, my self-confidence doesn't begin to fail me until I pull into the parking lot where I realize that I don't remember Conner's birthday.  The medical profession is obsessed with birthdays.  The first question healthcare professionals learn to ask in medical school is "When were you (he/she) born?" 

OMG!  What will Karen (Melody/Brian) think of me?!!  But in my defense, I don't remember anybody's birthday.  It's one of my genetic defects.  

And since this is a new doctor, the first thing I am given is a clipboard with papers that I need to fill out.  The first question after name and address of patient is date of birth.  My heart sinks as I write:  "Approximately two an a half years ago."

Conner and I are in the children's waiting room where I am sitting on a tiny chair which only supports 45% of my butt.  Conner is happily exploring a variety of broken toys when he looks up and makes that half-smiling scrunchy face that we all recognize instantly as...well, you know.  

At which point my self-confidence further declines with the realization that I failed to bring an extra diaper.  I finish writing down emergency contact numbers on the form and wondering if I should call them,  Odor fills the room and I'm glad we are alone.  Conner smiles at me blithely assuming that I have the solution.

I carry him gingerly to the front desk and ask if they might have a spare diaper.  They don't, of course, but they smile weakly at me with a mixture of sympathy and condescension..  Poor old grandpa.  One of the nurses appears to be silently wondering if the needed diaper is for Conner or me. 

I go back to the children's waiting room and wonder if we can just wait it out while I continue filling out the form:

Does he use tobacco or drink alcohol?   Not as far as I know.

Is he allergic to anything?    Bedtime and vegetables.

Has he ever had surgery?  His umbilical cord was cut.

Does he suffer from insomnia?  No, he does not appear to suffer although the rest of us in the house do.

Constipation?  OBVIOUSLY NOT! 

Which brings me back to the current dilemma.  Conner has now stopped playing and is standing in front of me with wide wondering eyes.  Waiting for me to do something. 

Plan B.   So I carry him even more gingerly than before to the unisex bathroom where I find a changing station hanging on the wall.   I open it up and lay him down on it.  I am really really hoping that he has delivered one of those nice solid little poopies that I might remove and somehow salvage the diaper.

No such luck!  (Editor's note:  Long, nnauseating description of catastrophic diaper has been deleted.) 

So after using an entire role of toilet paper in the unisex bathroom, I returned to the reception desk to report that I now had a relatively clean patient but that he no longer had a diaper under his shorts. 

Here is where I learned a wonderful strategy for increased efficiency which I will pass along to any reader who would like to take advantage of it.   If you are in a doctor's office with a toddler who has no diaper, you get incredibly fast service!   No more waiting room.  They even accepted my incomplete questionnaire! 

We were out of there in less than ten minutes!   VIP Service!  (Very incontinent person).

All that remained for me to do was go home and beg for mercy.

"I can't believe you forgot to take an extra diaper!"

"I can't believe you didn't remember your own grandson's birthday!"

I sit and smile.  Across the room I notice that Conner's face is turning red and he is making that scrunchy smile again.   I quietly get up and go walk the dogs.