Why I'll Wear a Turtleneck to my Son's Next Well-Baby Appointment

Confession: I was—notice I use the past tense here—was one of THOSE moms. You know the type. Has a well-behaved child. Manages to accomplish most tasks with a cheerful tag-along toddler. Occasionally glances down the nose at a fellow parent with an out-of-control child. Mind you, I would never have judged another mother, or thought less of her for the way her child behaved, but I will admit to feeling just a BIT smug about how nicely my child always was in public.

Again, with the past tense.

Well, please let me extend a HUGE apology to anyone who might have encountered that previous version of me! I. AM. SORRY. I cannot say it enough. Because? Because? Because today I attempted to take my second-born child to a well-baby doctor's appointment. By myself. And he was not well-behaved. And he did not act nicely in public. And I have no doubt I received several down-the-nose glances from all those other parents in the waiting room with children who were behaving like my first-born always did.

It all started with the rocking chair.

Okay, actually, if I'm honest, it all started eighteen months ago when I birthed Hudson. Total tangent here, but I chose his name partially because a baby book told me it meant “charismatic adventurer” and my romantic heart beat wildly at the idea of a son who approached life with that kind of ruggedly poetic excitement.

So it was totally expected upon entering the crowded, but calm waiting room that he would wriggle out of my arms, discard his coat, and head for the single rocking chair in the corner of the room. Hey, as long as it kept him happy during our wait, I was fine with it! While the other children, mostly girls, cuddled with their parents or quietly read a book, my little adventurer rocked wildly in the child-sized seat and laughed loudly at his own freedom. He clanked the few toys provided for enjoyment and managed to have everyone's attention within moments of entering the vicinity.

And his shy mama? Silently crossing her fingers that this was the worst he would do.

Until my thoughts collided with the sound of his body lurching crazily from the rocking chair and his head thudding solidly against the wall.

Before my face turned red, before Hudson even had a chance to cry, the woman beside me gasped and shared horrified glances with the other witnesses—I mean parents. And so began my shame.

Calmly and carefully, I stood from my chair and retrieved my screaming toddler. Was it wrong of me to hope that at least this event would quiet him down? Contribute to some calm snuggling?

Except that I forgot about his comfort routine—probably dates back to his breastfeeding days—but when he's hurt, he snuggles against my neck and—for some reason—likes to tuck his hands into my shirt. For the record, he does this with Erik as well, so I think it has less to do with breasts than it does with the softness of skin beneath warm clothing. But, whatever the reason, as I tried to comfort my child in that busy waiting room, he desperately tried to put his little hands into my shirt.

He wailed. I patted. He threw his head back and bucked. I squeezed his little body for fear of dropping him. He flung his pacifier across the room, narrowly missing another witness—I mean fellow parent.

I tried books! I tried snacks! I tried whispering a song into his ear. I tried rocking. I tried my hardest not to burst into tears. Generally, I make it a point not to compare my children (they are, after all, unique individuals with their own personalities), but I couldn't help thinking that Ava never gave me these sorts of problems!

Finally, he pulled his slicky-butt move (arms thrust above his head, body stiffened straight) and slid to the ground. On the dirty floor of the waiting room, he flung his body around with complicated gyrations and performed quite a theatrical temper-tantrum.

Embarrassment won't kill you. I discovered that. Even when one of the witnesses—I mean parents—is your former high school biology teacher. Or the mother of an acquaintance who's your Facebook friend. Even then, it really only raises your body temperature about five degrees.

But still? It SUCKS.

I thought this moment—countless eyes turned toward my son's lowest behavior—would be the worst of it. I mean, they had to call our name any minute, right? Even though eyes would be crossed behind me and judgments would be passed, I could get over that. It would be over. I could pretend it never happened. Or go home and write a blog post about it. Right?

But then it got worse. They DIDN'T call my name. Hudson DIDN'T wrap up his temper tantrum. People DIDN'T stop staring. So I tried one more time to scoop up my wild adventurer and salvage my remaining dignity. About that time, Hudson opened his mouth, screamed in my face, grabbed hold of my already-stretched-out shirt, and yanked with every ounce of his frustration.

Moments later, in the bathroom outside the waiting room with tears streaming down my face, I realized several things.

1. I was pretty sure I had just flashed my former biology teacher. Plus about twenty other witnesses.

2. I could no longer hold the record of well-behaved children at well-baby appointments.

3. I couldn't stop the flow of tears long enough to return to the waiting room and wait my turn, or reschedule for another day.

So the next time I see a parent struggling with a wild child somewhere—a restaurant, a busy aisle in Wal-Mart, another waiting room—I am going to do something that I've never done before. I am going to smile warmly at them. I am going to radiate understanding and sympathy with my body language. And—if I'm brave enough—I'm going to say to them, “It's okay. I've been there before too.”

And the next time I take Hudson to a check-up—I've since rescheduled him via phone for next week—I am going to wear a turtleneck.