Maddie and Riley had their eighteen-month checkup today. They are perfectly healthy and quite large: Maddie is 90th percentile for height, 75th for weight, and off the chart for head size. Riley is 75th for height, 75th for weight, and 90th for head. Despite their colds, their ears were clear. All of this is good.
What was not good, but is normal for their age:
- the thrashing around like wild beasts while getting weighed, measured, poked, and prodded.
- the screaming, crying, and carrying on.
- the clinging.
- the throwing of toys.
- the general lack of cooperation.
By the end of it all, I was absolutely exhausted. I spent the appointment doing one of two things: (1) holding down a shrieking, windmilling, snot-disgorging toddler for vitals, or (2) consoling the hurt of the woeful and wronged, which involved balancing 53 pounds of kid on my lap while wiping noses, reaching for toys, and doling out hugs and kisses. My doctor had warned me that the eighteen-month visit is the one at which kids become very leery of the practice of medicine, and she was not exaggerating.
I'm finding eighteen months to be a challenge. I know many people do. We seem to have hit the eighteen-month sleep regression, which has brought on crying at bedtime, night waking, and naptime disruption. "No" is the word of the day. My daughter has started to shove and hit. My son has been seen engaging in throw-the-body-on-the-floor-and-scream tantrums. I was not ready for all of this at this age. Naively, I thought I had a few more months.
It's a good night for me to be hosting my book club. Wine, snacks, and good conversation will help me through.