Yesterday marked the Pip Squeak's first Physical Therapy visit in about six years. He's been experiencing a lot of lower back pain lately, and the orthopedic doctor feels that therapy will help. Of course, Pip wants nothing to do with "therapy" because he associates that with developmental delays, working really hard to do the things other little kids do naturally, and with playing in the big, huge ball pit.
So, we had to tell him that he was going to "Sports Medicine Therapy." At the same children's hospital. In the same clinic. With the same therapists. And the same ball pit. And he fell for it. Whatever.
I knew what was going to happen once he thought about it enough, and sure enough I was right on the money. Oh, no, he didn't figure out that sports medicine is therapy. Not yet, anyway.
Pip started freaking out about going to a hospital where sick people go and leave their germs and snot and mucus on everything and just how long did I think he could avoid the swine flu if he had to get in that NASTY, disease-ridden ball pit?? Also, he didn't plan on touching any door knobs. Plus, he was not pushing the buttons on the elevator and could we please wait and catch a ride on an empty one?
We arrived at the clinic and I was promptly asked to hand over my ID, insurance cards, prescription and co-pay and then handed a stack of forms to fill out while waiting. Pip and Quatro took a seat on the sofa (Pip perched on the very edge, lest someone may have coughed on the seat cushion. Wouldn't want any germs on the butt of our jeans, now would we??) and I grabbed a chair and started filling out forms.
The insurance forms and consent for treatment made sense. Those are necessary, I get it. I finished those and moved on to the "Tell Us About Your Child" packet. And that's when I had to stifle the laughter. First of all, these people already know my child. They treated him for the first six years of his life-from birth in fact. So the endless questions regarding family life, languages spoken, and bedtimes? Not real important in my opinion. I mean, where is the connection between how many sisters he has and when his back began to cause him pain?
Of course, I'm not the one with the therapy degree, so I filled in the info. But then...then came the really pertinent stuff. Questions about when he first smiled, spoke his first word and was potty trained. Now that would be vital info for someone treating a two year old with delayed development. But he's twelve! He has a back injury. Who cares when began to roll over in his crib. He doesn't sleep in one anymore. He's been smiling for years now. And he can wipe his own behind, too! He's a multi-talented kid, to be sure.
Plus...umm...I don't REMEMBER all that stuff!
I know, bad mommy, right? So sue me. I have four kids and they're all BIG now. I haven't got a clue when who did what. I just know they're all doing stuff now. If they had warned me ahead of time, I could have brought along the baby book as a handy reference. I think I may have written in the twins' books once or twice. Or not.
While I was wracking my brains, poor Pip was trying not to inhale too deeply, (in case some other kid in the waiting room had been exposed to anthrax recently) and leaning back in his seat trying to avoid an adorable toddler who kept coming over to poke him with her bottle. Cause, you know, she might be contagious!!
Luckily, his therapist came to the rescue! She poked her head around the corner and called us back, took the papers and laughed. We went to the therapy gym and talked about the problems Pip is having. She got him connected to some electrodes and began working on his legs. And then, winking at me, she said, "When we're all done with stretching, how about I toss you in the ball pit for old time's sake??"
I thought he was going to leap off the table and run away with the e-stim machine still attached!