Four Months

I came back to residency from my maternity leave when Melly was two months old. By the time she was four months old, I had gotten the hang of things, but it was still rough. Sleep was a frequent issue and between taking care of her and doing night call for work, I was constantly tired. I wrote this one night:

Melly seems to have developed severe separation anxiety in the past week. Leaving her for 5 seconds, or even just putting her in a bassinet, makes her cry. She's cried herself to sleep the past 4 or 5 nights because no matter how late I stay up with her she never wants to be left in her crib alone. I feel terrible.

I was also breastfeeding, so my entire existence seemed to revolve around the boobs. I was always looking for an opportunity to sneak off with my pump. By the end of the day, I was nearly desperate to get home so that I could be "emptied out". It was all I could think about, aside from her tiny little face.

As wonderful as that time was, new baby and all, it was very hard. Very very hard. I felt like I was being pushed to the edge of my limits, keeping things together only by some miracle. But yesterday I realized that as difficult as it was for me when she was four months old, it could have been worse.

At least I wasn't running for Vice President of the United States.

(Or is residency harder?)

Worms

The kids know that I'll check out their cuts or scrapes on a routine basis, and I've been known to pull out more than a few chunks of bothersome ear wax when asked. So it doesn't usually surprise me when one will pull me aside and ask for my "professional opinion". The other day was an exception:

“Mom, can you look at worms with your magic* otoscope?” Youngest casually posed the question one morning.

“Yes, of course,” I began to respond. Then his question sunk in. “Um, honey, why do you want to look at worms?” With mild disgust, I pictured some juicy night crawler on the sidewalk that he wanted to look at more closely.

“Can you look at the worms in my head?”

“WHAT?!” Take a deep breath, I told myself. Surely this isn’t what you think.
“Youngest dear, you don’t have worms in your head,” I stated, with far more confidence than I felt.

“I have one of those song worms in my head and it’s making me crazy. I thought maybe you could see it with your otoscope and get it out,” he replied calmly, starting to walk away.

Song worms? Song worms? What the heck is a song worm? I wondered. Then it hit me – he had an EARWORM that was tormenting him. Starting to laugh, I followed him and pulled him in for a hug.

“Even with my magic otoscope, I can’t get out ear worms. You just have to let them die a natural death. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can pass them along to someone else. What song is bugging you?”

And now, Miley Cyrus’s “The Seven Things I Hate About You” has given an ear worm in my brain new life…

A

*Magic because it only turns on when a child blows gently on it – with a little help from Mom’s fingers on the rotary switch. And for more on worms, check out the post here.

A Body in Motion

In my younger days, I was a veritable whirlwind of activity. "The busier, the better!" was my personal little motto. I did feel as though the more that I had to do, the more that I could get done. In high school I juggled studying, cheerleading (yes, I was a cheerleader, hush), multiple extracurricular clubs, honor classes, a 20 hour a week job, and a steady boyfriend with relative ease. Every minute was scheduled to the hilt. Every weekend was planned in advance. I buzzed from one activity to another like a frenetic hummingbird, and honestly, thrived on the pressure of keeping it all going. Granted, all of my activities were very self-centered. I did what made me happy. I didn't have to worry about cooking or doing a lot of chores or taking care of anyone else but myself. The money I earned went for fun stuff, gas for the car, and clothes. I did get to sleep all night every night, and exercised very regularly and would periodically skip lunch to keep my (I imagined) plump 112 pound figure in check.

In college, it was more of the same; harder classes in a biology major, more studying, way more partying, leadership positions in extracurricular activities and my sorority (again, hush), the (required) volunteer work and physician shadowing in preparation for applying to medical school, and a long distance relationship. I bemoaned the woe of having 8 am classes, keeping me only able to go out 4 times a week instead of 6. When I found I had gained the dreaded "freshman fifteen," I dutifully trudged to the gym every afternoon after my 3 pm class, and found the will power to decline dessert with my meals. I lived in the sorority house where meals were cooked three times a day during the week, there was a housekeeper, and my idea of shopping was sneaking in a box (yes, I said box) of contraband wine to hide under the bed and drink with my roommate on the balcony. "A body in motion tends to stay in motion!" I would chirp, and be on my merry little way, padding my resume for medical school applications.

In medical school, things got a lot harder. The classes weren't easy any more. I actually had to go and study, a lot more than I ever had. I was living on my own for the first time in a really big city. I doing all of the chores, laundry, cooking for myself (lots of ramens, rice, and pasta), shopping for myself, and really starting to live like a responsible adult. All of the sudden, all of the extra stuff just wasn't so appealing. I dodged requests to join the AMA, and AMSA, and more volunteer work, and med school committees. I was too busy! I joined the note service for the benefit of not having to take notes during class, but dreaded my transcriptions. It was all I could do to keep my clothes clean, my brain plugged in, and my fledgling relationship thriving. I still made an effort to get to the gym, but the nearest one was a 30-45 minute drive in traffic both ways. This coupled with the pasta, after exam parties, and late night study snacking packed on about 20 pounds. In the last year of medical school, I planned a wedding, got married, interviewed for residency, matched, moved across the country, and bought a house. All of the sudden, I didn't feel like I could do it all.

Then came residency, the mother ship of having no healthy life at all. No sleep, terrible eating habits, 120 hour work weeks, and the *pressure* of being a neophyte physician. Hobbies outside of surviving residency? Surely you jest! It was all I could do to stay awake long enough to speak briefly with my new husband, eat a piece of pizza (cooking just didn't happen any more), and maybe occasionally bathe. Fortunately for me, the 80 hour work week was passed 2 years into residency. I celebrated my new found "time off" by getting pregnant...immediately. Then it was triple the laundry, triple the chores, and triple the responsibility. I began to lose who I was, other than doctor, mother, and wife. I stopped taking care of myself, in order to get everything else done. I was constantly in motion, and constantly wishing to rest. During this time an additional 50 pounds of weight crept on gradually, then not so gradually.

So here I am now, still working ridiculous hours. Still eating like I did when I was in medical school and residency. Still not quite keeping up with the chores. The focus of my life has completely shifted from myself to everyone else *but* me! I stop to look around, and I realize that with as much motion as I have experienced in my life, I have been standing still for years. During a recent interview, someone asked me what I did for "fun" when I wasn't working, and I couldn't come up with a good answer! Um, reading? Blogging? Trying not to pass out whilst my children crawl all over me in the evenings after work? I was shocked to realize that I am not really living, I am merely surviving. In all of my constant motion, that once started out so self-centered, I have lost contact with what exactly it is that I would *want* to do, should I have the time.

I want to cultivate in my children a love of something that makes them uniquely them, be it sports or music or dance or chess or reading. I realize that it is my responsibility to be an example for them, and I don't want my legacy to be only a strong work ethic and keeping very slightly ahead of chaos. I want my children to live in motion, like I got to do, once upon a time. I now realize that to help them live in motion, I've got to find a way to get some rest.

How do you take care of you, and still take care of your families and patients? I welcome your advice.

Enjoy the moment

Having spent a few weeks off with my kids this month I feel renewed.

It has been an interesting time - My kids are 3yrs and 22mos so not quite independent, rather being with them is quite tiring. And while I still have to escort my 3 year old to her room several times a night, and my 22-month old has started having night-terrors...I feel ironically refreshed and rested.

It's because spending time with the kids requires me to be in the moment. They require my attention physically and emotionally.

Throughout my work day, I am usually multi-processing. Driving to and from work I am carefully planning how to use my time effeciently. While in a room with a patient, I am busy trying to cram their agenda in with mine while simultaneously typing their note. In between patients I'm usually checking labs while keeping a window open for my two email accounts...my usual routine is hardly restfull.

I'm not sure I need to do so much multi-processing, but from the time I spent this month at home with the kids, I am reminded of how important it is to enjoy and stay in the moment. I also feel blessed to have children to share these moments with.

What If?

In Eat, Pray, Love Elizabeth Gilbert introduces us to her goons, Depression and Loneliness. They follow her through Rome and Italy as she begins her journey back to herself. I have thugs, too – the What Ifs? They’re a nebulous group of wanderers that pop up as uninvited guests to my thought party.

As a physician they appear as I’m trying to decide how to treat a febrile infant with no source for the fever. “What if,” they poke, “this baby is septic? Will the parents call for more advice, treatment?” “Will this child die in the night?”

“What if the eight-year old that hit his head on the basketball court has a subdural hematoma? What if I miss this serious diagnosis? What if I get sued?” They love to spin tornado-like into larger and larger scenarios of doom. Rarely, they bring news of good. There’s no “What if you catch this hip click before it becomes avascular necrosis of the femoral head and needs a hip replacement when this patient is 25 years old?" There’s no “What if you’ve caught this MRSA before it’s an admission to the hospital?”

They bleed into life as a mother, too, where they take advantage of my sympathy and relative novice state as the parent of a grade- schooler and tween. Never having charted this particular course in parenthood – and it’s very different being a parent and having experience and being a physician and having book-knowledge – is perfect fodder for these thugs.

“What if being too tired to read to Harry tonight makes him feel unloved, unintelligent, uninteresting – take your pick? What if my slightly overweight sons don't hit that growth spurt just right to put their body mass indexes into a normal range? What if someone takes my social and easy-going seven-year old? Who will I call? Where do I look first? What would he do?”

Neurosis is part of my hard drive. I was born to worry about something and these goons know that. A good day for them is when they spin me so tightly that I spook when someone drops a pencil or my husband sticks his head into my office to say hello. Sometimes the What Ifs bring their cousins the What’s Next and Whys. Newspaper trivia about lame lawsuits and pediatric listservs feed their hungry mouths, but they’re always starving for more. Sleep deprivation is a neon open sign to my goons, and if they can catch me just right, What Ifs can keep me up all night with their myriad possibilities.

Lexapro is weak garlic to the What If bloodsuckers that leach my energy. Gilbert’s kept her vampires at bay with Wellbutrin. Breathing exercises and meditation return me to now from La La Future Land where these ding-a-lings prefer to inhabit. Running, walking and exercise also repel the monsters that dwell in my head. Maybe they hate body odor and running shoes. Experience locks the door on the What Ifs cage using reason and common sense as arsenal for the grenades they lob at my head.

Do you know the What ifs?

I feel sorry for you

Last night we went out to dinner with a friend of my husband as well as his girlfriend. Both members of this couple were graduate students and didn't have any kids yet.

If you were to construct a Responsibility Scale to rate the obligations that various people have in their lives, I would say that being a medical resident with children would fall on the higher end and being a childless grad student would fall on the low end. The very very low end. Like, zero.

Naturally, the topic of my own career came up. When the friend discovered that I'm a resident, his first response was, "Wow, that must be REALLY HARD."

Then he added: "You must be EXHAUSTED."

Well, yes. It is hard and I am exhausted. But regardless of the hard truth of that statement, I absolutely hate it when people say that to me. Maybe in this case we could blame it on the fact that Melly had just thrown like five consecutive tantrums (damn teething), but it seems like that's the universal response I get whenever someone hears that I'm both a resident and a mother: sympathy.

I don't want sympathy. Not unless it comes with an offer of babysitting.

Sometimes I question my reasons for going to med school and if they were the right ones, but I have to say, I'm pretty sure I didn't go so that people would feel sorry for me. And I know I didn't get pregnant so that people would comment on how absolutely horrific and miserable my life must be.

Just once, when I tell someone about my job and my child, I wish they would say to me: "Wow, I'm so jealous of you. You have a wonderful, fulfilling career, and you have a beautiful daughter."

(And not be sarcastic when they say it.)

Normal Incompetence

This blog is useful. Yes indeedy. Because all of you, I'm sure, will understand the emotion behind this post.

I can run a code. I could, if forced to, put in a chest tube, intubate, throw in a central line. I've delivered over 100 babies and I've taken care of countless numbers of people in the ICU. I can and do coordinate the care of patients when they are circling the drain. I can and do make life and death decisions every single day.

But put me in the room with my 4-year-old and I'm weak. He throws a tantrum (or eight) and I break. I yell. I threaten. I have no control over him, and no control over myself. I've never hurt him, but that's because I put myself in time out when things get really bad.

Yes, I occasionally lock myself in the bathroom to get away from my son.

Today, while sitting on the toilet in my locked bathroom, I thought, "What am I doing bringing another child into our family?"

_______________________________

After I typed the above, my phone rang. It was my adoption coordinator. I think perhaps God dialed the phone for her. I told her about my day and my feeling of utter incompetence. And then I wept on the phone with this woman who has the power to make our adoption happen or not.

She said I'm normal. She said she's glad to hear that I'm scared and feeling overwhelmed. The adoptive parents who have it all together, she said, terrify her. Like the mother I want to be, she soothed me with her kind words and lifted my spirits.

I'm normal. Incompetent, but normal.

So I went to peek in on Son, who is asleep in my bed. Angelic. I lay next to him and he snuggled in, his hot breath brushing against my neck.

And as I type the second half of this post, I'm starting to feel better.

Normal, if you will.

The Speech I Never Gave

Being on a medical school faculty, I have just listened to a slew of speeches welcoming the new students. Everyone from older students to the dean exhorted the students to be diligent, caring, dedicated and so on, and tried to capture the transformation that occurs between layman and doctor. The students all seemed overwhelmed, being told medicine would be a rewarding but all consuming life. While the speakers honored the families from whom the students came, none said anything to reassure them that their future lives might include families of their own. I listened with the ears of the lonely single woman I was on my first day of medical school, and I felt the mixture of aspiration and despair the dean’s vision evoked.

As my family has observed, I always want to be the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every wake. Sitting there, I tried to think what I would want to tell the students, especially the incoming women, about what lies ahead. I suspect a more feminine image of devotion and change might have been of comfort to them. After all, they are joining a profession, not a convent or a monastery.

Becoming a doctor, I would have said, is a lot like becoming a mother. When you imagine it, based on the images of motherhood that surround you, the vicarious experience of friends or family, and your own experience as a child, you imagine the change occurs suddenly and thoroughly. The baby is placed in your arms, you expect to be flooded with tenderness, to know what to do in every circumstance, and to have the respect of those around you. In fact, the process is gradual. The day you find out you are carrying a child is like the day you get your medical school acceptance letter. The child grows in your mind and occupies many different roles before it ever becomes a flesh and blood reality. How many different specialties did we practice in our heads, before we put on our first white jacket and tried to find a comfortable place to stash the stethoscope? Delivering the baby, like the first day in anatomy lab, doesn’t suddenly make you a mom, or a doctor, not the way you imagined it would. It takes time, sleepless nights, anxious days, moments of profound resentment and moments of even greater tenderness before you fall in love with this child, a love that evolves and changes as the child becomes more and more complex and separate from you. As with medicine, the more fully you embrace this new focal point in your life, the more your inner sense of self changes. Various milestones—the child’s smile, the end of your first period of exams—mark progress toward your new self, but the real transformation occurs privately. It can be sudden—the day someone calls you mommy, or doctor, and you don’t jump. More often, it is retrospective. You look back and realize that somewhere in the past few weeks, months or years, you have become what you and others have expected for so long—still yourself, yet profoundly and irrevocably other than what you were the day you first began to dream.

Do not be afraid, I would have said to them. The sacrifices you will be making will not be more than you can bear, and the rewards will be more than you can imagine.

Guest Post: Medical School Now and Then

I graduated from medical school in the 1970s. My daughter started medical school two weeks ago. Many things I thought were crazy in the '70s are still crazy today (like the schools requiring Calculus and Organic Chemistry for no reason I can fathom even after thirty years of working in hospitals and clinics). And why did I have to memorize the Krebs Cycle? But some things are vastly changed.

1. The Interview Process.
I remember the male interviewer asking me, "Are you engaged.........or anything?" I thought it was a fair question at the time. After all, letting a girl into medical school was risky. She might fall in love with a surgeon and drop out to get married. So I was quick to let the interviewer know that I was completely uninterested in ANYTHING like that. Little did I know that I would fall in love with a graduate student and get married at the end of my second year, right before National Boards.

I hear questions like that are illegal nowadays.

2. The male:female ratio.
My class was around 5:1. A group of us girls would sit in the back of the lecture hall dressed in jeans and men's shirts and hiss at the sexist remarks from the podium. We had a teacher who projected gigantic photos of scantily-clad models in front of the class between the pathology slides. I hear they don't allow that anymore. But looking back, that hissing and booing was a lot of fun; it was a great bonding experience for the women students.

Now there are more women than men in medical school, which is why the pay for primary care doctors is dropping compared to the rate of inflation.

3. The money!
The tuition that medical students pay nowadays is insane. I was upset when my tuition rose to $2000 my 4th year. With all the blood drawing, xray fetching, middle of the night foley catheters and EKGs, I thought the school should be paying us. I wonder if students today still provide all those services for the hospital even though they are paying $40,000 for the privilege.


"Fiddler" practices Internal Medicine in the Pacific Northwest. She has two daughters, ages 18 and 23.

Tucked in

As a resident running the family practice ward, I would come up to the unit in the evening to finish dictations and complete paperwork. At the end of the evening, I'd ask the nurse if there were any patients she was concerned about or orders she wanted written. Having tied up all the loose ends, I'd head to the call room.
I distinctly remember how I felt walking down the corridor at eleven at night. The ward was hushed and still, with the patients' lights off and just one or two staff at the nursing station. Heading back to the elevator, past rooms of four beds apiece with patients curled up under blue cotton blankets, I felt maternal. Or how I imagined maternal would feel, as I hadn't had a child yet.
It was a powerful emotion, a combination of affection and respect for my charges, the satisfaction of having managed the day's problems, the weight of responsibility, and humility and gratefulness for my own position.
These days, as I round on my own children every night before bed, the flood of feeling as I adjust the covers over small sleeping bodies is remarkably similar.
And I realize now that those late nights walking down the corridor of 7B, the sense was of having tucked the kids in for the night.

Backfired

Years ago, I heard my sister tell her then 2-year-old son that she was 'so excited' to go to work. I questioned her motive behind that statement, as I knew she would rather spend time with him.

"I don't want him to think I would ever leave him to do something I don't like," she said. "If he believes I love going to the hospital, it won't hurt him as much when I walk out the door."

Now that I, too, am a mother, I see the logic in her little white lie.

A few days ago, Son was quite upset when I left him at preschool to go across the street to my own hospital. I stooped down so I was at his level and explained to him that going to work was fun for mommy, that sometimes I need to have fun like he needs to have fun.

Today, we are staying home. I told Son our plan to meet our friends (a nurse I work with and her son, who is in Son's preschool class) for a picnic in the park. I suggested it would be fun for us both.

"No, Mama," he said sternly. "You go to work to have fun," he explained. "The park is not fun for you."

Sigh.

I guess I need to rethink that line.

You stink!

Another day in the life with kids:

Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of strep surrounds you
(apologies to Lynrd Skynrd)
A few days ago Youngest spent some time with a family friend, returning home several hours sooner than expected. Coming in the door, he complained of a headache. Our friend explained that Youngest hadn’t seemed quite his perky self during their outing, adding he was surprised when Youngest abruptly asked to return home.

I put an arm around Youngest and he leaned in for a hug. I was initially repulsed at how warm he was – but shrugged it off to the heat of the day and the time he had spent outside. But what did I just smell? Only a quick whiff, gone before I could really say with certainty I had recognized it. Nonetheless, after our friend left, I put Youngest on the sofa and got the thermometer. 101.3 – not a typical temperature after spending time outside, no matter how hot it gets. Ergh. Let’s keep a close eye on this, I thought.
“How’s your head, bud?”
“It’s OK, Mom.”
“Any sore throat?”
“Uh uh.”

Maybe I was mistaken about that smell…

The next morning, Youngest was still febrile. Leaning close, the smell was unmistakable.
“How’s your throat today?”
“It hurts when I swallow, Mom.”
*Sigh*
“Open up. I want to look at your throat.”
“AAAHH” Youngest has an amazing ability to open his mouth when he wants to be cooperative. I was able to see almost down to his larynx, so I had no problems identifying the pustules along his tonsils. As he exhaled, the scent was overpowering. Strep. Unmistakable. I could have waved a rapid strep screen in front of his face and obtained a postive response.

“OK, time for some medicine for you.”
I knew he was really sick when he responded with “Can I have the pills instead of the yucky liquid?” instead of his usual protests against any type of medication.

So now we’ve been on antibiotics for 48 hours. The pustules are going away. Youngest is back to his usual bouncy self. And I’m hovering around Eldest on a regular basis, waiting for him to exhale, waiting for him to develop that smell.

A

photo from Medscape.com

Bittersweet weekends

"You're going to work?" says my three-year old daughter, taking a break from the business of a blueberry waffle and yogurt. "Why?"

("Why?" is the most repeated word in our house for the last few months.)

"Because there's a lot of sick people and I need to help them get better, " I say, as I kiss her on the top of her head and give her a hug from behind.

"Oh," she says, unfazed, her focus again on the waffle.

I slip away, blowing kisses through my lowered car window. Trading "air hugs." Just like any other day.

But today is Sunday. I also worked Saturday.

Today, it stings to drive away, as it always stings on a weekend day. You would think I'd be used to it by now, after three years. But, no.

Working on the weekend is by far, the hardest part of my job. It feels so anti-mother, leaving my babies on a day that is supposed to be time off with the family. I think of families everywhere, doing the usual weekend things. Brunch. The park. Even running errands. Do they realize how special uninterrupted weekend time is? Do they have any idea?

My job, while it does require some weekends, allows me flexibility at other times. During those other times, I really appreciate the flexibility as it relates to mothering. I can head into work a little later, after fitting in an extra nursing session with my 7-month old. I can get home earlier if I need to, to meet with my daughter's teacher. This flexibility, I often reason, makes the occasional weekend day tolerable. But, always, my reasoning and appreciation evaporate the instant a working weekend day rolls around. Poof. Like magic.

I always just want to be home. Like a "normal" mother. I always feel a twinge of guilt. Like a "bad" mother.

Yet, I love what I do. I love every other aspect of my job. I can still find joy in talking and joking with my patient's wife on a Sunday afternoon as we all talk about his progress, his recovery.

I think my daughter understands her mother is taking care of sick people and sick people need help, even on the weekend. I think she knows how much I love her, and how much I miss her when I'm away. Hopefully, my son will know this too, one day.

And when I have the luxury of an entire weekend to drench with family, it is all the more precious.

I soak it up.

Mothers, don't let your daughters be doctors

Stranger: "Little girl, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Me: "A doctor." [Looks to mother for approval]

Mother: "That's right."

Before I even really knew what a doctor was, I knew that was what I was supposed to be. My parents, both doctors, expected it of me, and I accepted it, much like an arranged marriage. After all, there was nothing else I really wanted to be, other than maybe a ballerina (in retrospect, that likely wouldn't have worked out too well).

In high school and college, I entertained thoughts of other careers, but my father made some very compelling arguments for med school that I was unable to refute:

1) How many careers are there out there where you can really help people?

2) As a woman, this is one of the few fields where you will earn a decent salary and not have to rely on your husband to support you.

3) Just take the MCATs already and see how you do.

At the end of my sophomore year of college, I "just took the MCATs to see how I'd do" and when I got my score back, it was good enough to apply to medical school. And after having taken an eight hour exam, I already felt time committed. Why would I put myself through that and pre-med biology if I wasn't going to apply to med school?

So here I am years later, a new physician. I can't say that this was the perfect career choice for me, but now that I'm at the tail end of my residency, I'm not about to quit and start folding jeans at the Gap** either.

People ask me if I plan to encourage my daughter to become a doctor. At this point, I'd settle for her not coloring all over the walls, but my specific answer to that question is, "Absolutely not."

In fact, not only will I not encourage her to become a doctor, but I will actively discourage her from entering a life in medicine. I will tell her every awful story I can think of about the abuse med students, residents, and (I can only presume) attendings are put through. I'll complain incessantly about how being a doctor means giving up your life to your patients. I mean, yes, I'll buy her the toy doctor's kit, but that will be mostly for me to play with.

And after all that, if she still wants to be a doctor, I can't say I'll be disappointed. What mom doesn't want her daughter to follow in her footsteps? But it's important to me that she gets to that decision on her own. Because medicine is not a career anyone should be pushed into.

And best of all, this way if she ends up hating it, I'll get to say, "I told you so." I've heard mothers love saying that.


**Favorite alternate joke career of doctor trainees who want to quit, for some reason

The Orchidometer

“Mom, do you have an orchidometer?”

“A WHAT?” I’m totally in mom-mode lounging and watching television with my tween son, Will.

“It’s in one of those books you gave me.”

“Go get it and show me what you’re talking about.”

He brings me one of his puberty books, and shows me a picture of varying sized beads on a string.

I hadn’t seen one of those since my peds endocrinology rotation fifteen years ago. It’s a gauge to measure the size of a patient’s testicles, and not part of my regular assessment in general pediatrics.

“I think I’m between a 4 and 6. Maybe about a five.” He offers me.

Great – I’m amused and relieved that he would even share this information with me. I am his go-to parent about all matters related to sexual development. My tween is in a very push-pull stage. There are days he’s my shadow, and can’t get enough of me. He strokes my back affectionately, and nuzzles up to my shoulder. I can barely relieve myself without his presence, and I’m mostly grateful that he still likes my company. I know there will be a day soon that my company will no longer be needed or desired.

I’m also horrified that he knows the information that he does. It gives me a small peak into what he is preoccupied with these days. It’s not the video games that I would like to lull myself into false expectations with. Who is he sharing this information with? Have I overeducated him? Is he overeducated in some areas and undereducated in others? (Probably)

“The book says that puberty doesn’t start until your testicles get to be about an eight or nine.”

“Good to know.” I blink hard.

“So I don’t think I’ve started yet.”

“Mmm.” is all I can think of to say.

So the acne, body odor, mood swings, and tiny peach fuzz over his top lip aren’t because of puberty. The frequent visits to my glass shower while I’m in it probably aren’t related to puberty, either. Boy, that’s a relief! For now I’ll continue to watch this surreal movie that is my life with a pre-pubertal son.