The Pediatrician's Office

I met Jack at the doctors office today, the pediatricians office.  He drove himself there.  The first time he could drive himself to a physical, in his own car, and we do this now, meet each other places. 

I’m still getting used to it.

It was his last physical as a child, as he turns 18 in April. 

It was his last physical at the pediatrician's office. 

Like most things required, this moment was not in the ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ book I read cover to cover multiple times.  Why did no one warn me about this - the place where mothers are needed desperately - and the feeling of the rapid transition to when you are no longer required here?  When your child ages out of the place?

I walked in the door with my dashingly handsome 6’3” and 180lb son, into a sea of small children and smiling nurses in cartoon scrubs.  I wanted to tell them he was 9lbs 4oz when he was born, always tall and this beautiful, as they stared a little too long.  I didn’t.

I signed the electronic forms.  I approved the required vaccines. For the last time. They handed me a paper of doctors offices in the area to call, as the pediatrician's office will no longer be his primary care physician.  I was hoping they’d give me a paper next for support groups for mothers who are struggling with the emotion of simultaneously experiencing excruciating pain and joy in this stage of life.  They didn’t. 

I sat in the waiting room.  I watched the tiny babies being held as the Mom’s scurried them out of the office in tiny bundles.  I wanted to tell them to savor every second, but I couldn’t. I put my sunglasses on instead to hide the tears streaming down my face. 

You go with your child to every doctor's appointment for their entire childhood.  You track their metrics from the moment you know you’re carrying them.  You count inches, then feet,every pound and development milestone with the analytical prowess of a statistician in percentiles and line graphs. You smile as you place them on the tiny scale, then watch small feet stand on the big scale, and the measuring stick of growth reveals celebratory progress.  You ooh and ahh and marvel at their tiny, growing frames.  At every cough, rash, fever, you talk to the nurses, snag the first available appointment, and hold them in these rooms of the pediatricians office, a place I didn’t call sacred, a place that didn’t seem fleeting, until now. 

Because, suddenly, unbelievably abruptly, they’re grown.  They don’t require you there in the annual place of nurturing where they needed you most. Where you read to them, packed extra snacks, changed their diapers, held their hands, hugged them for immunizations and soothed them through sickness. Their childhood is, well, it’s past. 

Jack believes I’m ridiculous and he is right.  I tried explaining just a bit of my tears to him as we left today, and I stopped.  17 year old boys aren’t equipped for this kind of crazy. Nor should they be.  Jesus, is anyone?  I tried to grab a photo because… that would help?  It didn’t.  He hid on the floor of the elevator. 

He’s still in the 98th percentile for height. He grew beautifully this year and every year of his magical childhood that he gifted to me. His percentiles are perfect and heart, absolute gold.  He has grown into an extraordinary young man.  A gift that may just always leave me stunned. 

Thank you for your childhood, my first born son. Even every trip to the pediatrician I’ll hold in my heart as the highest honor.

He’s always my first born and walks me through each new door, whether I’m ready or not. He’s been so patient with my learning, my own becoming, as I learned motherhood through him.  Turns out, I wasn’t ready for the pediatrician’s door to close today.  But as it did, as he always will, he’ll be carrying my love with him. He will always know that. 

I’ll be ready next time, I tell myself.  But, I won’t.  

  

You can expect a “What to Expect When Your Kid is a Senior in High School” publication from me after this year is complete, if I survive it.  I’m looking for contributors, confidants and support beams.  Mom’s, how do you do this?