The Everything But Girl

Do you remember that girl in high school who would put out enough to develop a reputation and corresponding popularity with guys, but who never actually went all the way?

In my day, she was fondly known as “The Everything But Girl.” Alias: The Tease.

My daughter is the developmental equivalent of the Everything But Girl.

It started early with rolling over. In the sense that, well, she rarely ever did. She would lean slightly one way or the other, rest on her arm, then flop back to her original position. All the while smiling and gurgling and taunting me. She would do everything but actually roll over.

This is the only picture I have as proof she rolled over. At month 5. I don’t think Scott ever saw it in real life.

At the time I was dumbfounded. This child held her neck up at three weeks old, learned how to scoop food weeks before her cohorts at daycare…we hadn’t had any concerns over her developmentally at all.

I was told this wasn’t a concern, and sure enough, eventually she rolled over a few times. Then figured out how to sit up and that was basically that.

At 9 months, she showed zero interest in crawling. At first, I wasn’t worried. Then the doctor suggested I should worry.

I put it off a bit. This was about the time we were switching daycares and getting ready for our first plane trip, I had other things to worry about.

Wee ‘Burb was doing the Everything But again. She would get on all fours, she would move her butt…and then move it right back to the floor and sit. If she wanted to get somewhere, she’d scoot. Or leeeean. Or bat her eyelashes at her daddy. Everything but crawl.

I figured it was cool, she’d figure it out.

But the doctor gave me an ultimatum: she either crawls by 11 months, or she goes to physical therapy.

Then I wasn’t so cool with her Everything But Girl reputation.

I was especially alarmed because we affectionately call Wee ‘Burb’s pediatrician “Mother Goose.” She is like the calmest, most serene woman I have ever met. Kid fell and hit her head? Put some ice on it. A temperature of 101? Only bring her in if it lasts more than a day. She’s soothed me in many a panicked mom situation…but the one time I wasn’t panicked, she was telling me I should be.

I don’t recall there being any sort of transition, any indication that she would. I had tried everything: I got copies of what they do in physical therapy to figure out how to manipulate her at home, I put a trail of her favorite food just out of her reach (she cried until I gave it to her)…everything.

I had just finished telling everyone: “look, some babies don’t crawl, she’s just going to be one of those.” One of those Everything But Girls.

About a week short of 11 months, Wee ‘Burb started crawling like she was born doing it.

And now we’re at 15 months and it’s the same tease with the walking. Having just learned to crawl, I didn’t expect her to jump (no pun intended) into walking right at 12 months. And after the trauma of trying to force her crawling, I decided to lay off the walking. I encouraged her to stand and move, but I didn’t force.

I get a call from the county program we participate in. They send us questionnaires and they work as early interventionists if there’s anything wrong. Well, something was wrong, they said.

We kind of joked about it at home. Oh, Social Services will come take her away because we’re not nurturing her walking enough. She’ll go to college crawling. I planned her Intervention script. “Your disinterest in walking has affected your life negatively in the following ways…”

Only, it kind of didn’t. Affect her, that is. Or us.

I mean, she pulled up on furniture. She stood up and pushed her car around the house. I know that she can do it! I also know that if I try to make her stand up, she buckles her knees and crawls as far away from me as possible.

But people were eyeing her oddly, commenting on how she was so late to walk. Others reassured me. My mother told me early to talk, late to walk. As Wee' Burb already has a vocabulary of about 10 words, I was trying to take that to heart.

Nevertheless, I dreaded our 15-month appointment with Mother Goose. The interventionists had agreed to let the doctor lead the charge. Actually what she said to me was “perhaps this is more of an…emotional or behavioral problem? Something for your doctor to determine”

Diagnosis: your baby is a bit of a jerk. What have I been telling you people??!!

Mother Goose more or less agreed, although she thought perhaps it was a confidence issue. A fear of falling and getting hurt.

She sent me and the Everything But Girl home with a prescription to wait it out for another month or two.

Wee 'Burb continues to tease, occasionally letting her hands off the table for a moment, before collapsing on her butt in a fit of giggles. She will pull herself up on everything, but do not ask her to let go.

Everything But.

I’m just not ready to be the one to push her to go all the way on this one.

Oh Healthcare, I Don't Care

So, look, I am going to say it. I have health insurance, my family is covered. In many ways, I am lucky. But that’s never stopped me from whining before.

I’ve mentioned our glorious new high-deductible plan in passing. If only there were a word to actually describe the sucking of this plan. It’s the suckiest plan that ever sucked. EVER! SUCKED!! I prize correct grammar over almost everything else, so you know how serious I am about not being able to find adequate phrasing.

Mathematically, I am informed that this plan is actually a good deal…as “deals” go in healthcare. On a per-month basis, my premiums look quite loverly. But, you see, those per-month premiums cover NOTHING. Anything that isn’t considered preventive (which, hey, includes BIRTHING A CHILD) is not covered at all until you reach a deductible. And then it is only covered at about 60-80%.

Allow me to relate the fun we’ve had with this new insurance plan:

I won’t give the exact amount, but I paid quite a bit for Wee ‘Burb’s birth. I stayed in the hospital for 5 days. I had no choice, they would not release me after my surgery until then. And this is what I tried to explain to the people at the insurance company when I got the bill. I pointed out it was rather punitive not to consider the surgery part of preventive care…again, there was no choice. The baby has to come out some way, right? You cover NINE MONTHS of pregnancy and then when the baby actually, ya know, COMES OUT, I start footing the bill? It’s a natural result of the nine months you’ve been covering, yes? Or am I to be pregnant forever? Cuz nine months felt like forever enough, thank ya!

Then I got notice about our biometric screening "credit." So we’re required to do these biometric screenings for the “credit.” And it just says “go to any convenience care clinic” on the form. Just keep that in mind. Any convenience care clinic.

So, a few weeks ago I call insurance to be sure they will cover a flu shot for Wee ‘Burb if we go to a convenience care clinic. The response I get is less than confidence-inducing: “well, sort of.”

Huh? Yeah, sort of.

As in, the only convenience care considered in our network is Minute Clinic. Target wishes you to know with a million signs that they are NOT a Minute Clinic. Which is ever so excellent information not so much imparted to me from Doctor Cashier as she told me “oh we’ve done a bunch of these biometric screenings.”

Cool. What do you want a cookie? Oh, sure, you can find those in aisle 6. Let me just stick you with this needle first.

Incidentally, the flu shot! Moms, have you not been INUNDATED with people telling you to get the flu shot for your baby? Magazines, e-mail newsletters, everyone is telling me that child needs to be injected like yesterday. Only, nobody would do it! The convenience care clinics refuse to treat those under 18 months!! And Wee ‘Burb’s doctor put us on a waiting list for almost a month! I heard maybe there was a recall of some dosages, but seriously! A waiting list?

So now we’re in that fun open enrollment time where you get to pick the least sucky plan. It’s kind of like politics, you know? There’s major faults with every single candidate, but you have to pick one, and that pick will effect you life for months to come. And you don’t get a do-over if you realize you pick the wrong one.

So I’m trying to put as much thought as humanly possible into this. And I consult Scott. Who actually says to me, in this adorably naïve way: “I wanted to get back on my old medicine. I was waiting for your plan to get better.”

Awww, it’s cute how he thinks healthcare is somehow going to improve. It’s kind of like believing in the tooth fairy, or the Easter Bunny, or Social Security or something.

The Bitter Pill

You guys, something really weird happened to me. It’s kind of related to my recent blogging about what I am to understand is called Momnesia: basically me losing my marbles one day at a time.

So in June, you may recall that my husband hired me a housekeeper for the day to clean for my birthday party. And a few weeks later, I had what I attributed to a Momnesia moment. I thought I renewed some medication, went looking for it, and couldn’t find it.

Now it’s not a big deal, I dismissed it at the time. Because they’re basically just very low-grade anti-anxiety pills that I was prescribed for sleep when I was pregnant. I take them a few times a month on evenings I know I am going to be laying there staring at the ceiling listing all the things I’ve yet to do and all the time I should have spent doing said things. Am I the only one?

Anyway, these pills are awesome because they don’t put me to sleep, they literally just relax me enough where I can fall asleep on my own. But I am not so groggy that I can’t get up to soothe a very needy Wee ‘Burb in the middle of the night if need be.

Anyway, so I looked for them one night, and figured I just hadn’t refilled them. But since I couldn’t find the bottle, I just kind of blew it off and moved on. I have to confess, I was also afraid if I had refilled them and lost them, then calling to get another refill would put me on some list. Maybe it’s being the daughter of a woman who works in chemical dependency, I don’t know, but I fear ANYONE thinking I have some sort of issue with any mood-altering substance.

Case in point, after I had Wee ‘Burb, they put me on Vicodin. Which I hated, by the way. I don’t get how people can become addicted to falling asleep mid-sentence and waking up feeling hung over.

But anyway, so it said No Refills on the bottle. So I go to my two-week appointment and my doc is like “wow, Stephanie, you didn’t refill your Vicodin? You’re just taking Ibuprofen two weeks after having this baby?”

And I’m like deer in the headlights “but the bottle said no refills!”

Seriously, she stared at me like I had just spontaneously given birth to a twin they thought Wee ‘Burb had absorbed or something. And she informs me that it is only written that way so they can keep track of refills and make sure you’re not abusing it.

So I get yelled at for not taking meds, just in case you think the point of this post is that I was jonesin’ for some drugs and found them missing.

Since Wee ‘Burb has been mobile and I’m planning her first birthday and helping Scott with a new business while he constantly travels, I did need those pills, though. After three nights of not sleeping, I called Target and begged them to refill it. That was two weeks ago. I picked them up relatively without incident, other than that Target sucks my will to live with their construction and inability to actually refill a prescription within the timeframe given on the phone.

The other morning I get a call from Target saying my medication has been refilled. I inform them I picked it up two weeks ago. The pharmacist is puzzled, as you see someone called that morning requesting a refill. I asked if maybe it was an automatic refill request? She said no, they had a phone call request. Then she shrugs it off and goes “they must have just hit the wrong numbers.”

Ok, lots wrong with this scenario. First of all, have you used those automated systems? It’s kind of hard to punch in the wrong numbers because after you punch in said numbers, it says something like “please verify the first three letters of the last name are XYZ.” It also asks for a phone number to call when the prescription is ready. So if you did indeed make a mistake, those prompts would usually guide a person in error to start over. Right?

Second, why are they not more concerned that it’s two weeks and I’m refilling this prescription? I mean I get that it’s not some habit-forming pain-killer and all, but considering I need to turn over my fingerprints and first-born child to get Sudafed, you would think someone trying to refill a prescription two weeks after getting a whole bottle would maybe raise a few eyebrows.

I’m just confused why the woman at Target wasn’t more concerned. I’m trying not to blow this out of proportion, because if someone stole it and if they were trying to do something criminal with it, the joke’s on them. It’s something prescribed to preggos, so it’s not going to have hot street value, I’m just guessing.

But I also kind of feel violated that it’s possible someone was in my house stealing my medication. I’m not convinced it was the housekeeper because I don’t want to believe that of someone who does this job professionally. I know people who immediately blame “the help” when anything goes wrong in their house, and I do not want to be that person.

At the same time, I don’t know of any other strangers that have been in my house.

It’s just kind of an ooky feeling. Has this happened to anyone before? Do I need to take further action or just brush it off and figure the person either made an error or didn’t get what they wanted and moved on?

I Wish the White Coats Would Take Me Away!

I had the occasion to go to the Target Clinic today...they aren't Minute Clinics anymore, by the way. They want you to know that. Signs are everywhere.

Anyway, don't worry, nothing's wrong with me. This is just a "standard" biometric screening my insurance has requested. You gotta love this.

The basic message is "hey, remember how last year we raised your rates like $300 a year? Oh, and then how we added a high deductible? Well, see, we're planning on screwing you in much the same way next year. But we're going to soften the blow by offering you a 'credit.' If you do this biometric screening, you get a $300 credit next year. What? Well, yes, we'll be raising your rates, so you'll be paying what you paid this year. What? Well, yes, we still consider it a credit because otherwise you'd be paying more...next year. You see how it is."

Yes...yes I do.

The biometric screening basically consists of measuring BMI and cholesterol levels. If you don't pass, then you have to participate in health coaching. Assuming you do so to the satisfaction of a health coach (yeah, I don't know what is either. I see a lot of life coaches on reality TV, maybe it's similar?) then you get the "credit."

This is a whole different rant about insurance.

But the point is this: I get in and sign in with the receptionist. The receptionist is wearing the typical khaki pants and red shirt of Target. I can live with this. Until the receptionist calls me in a room and starts putting on gloves. Wazza whah???

Yeahhh, apparently she was a medical assistant and was actually the one to perform the tests.

Then the doctor comes in to read the results. Guess what the doctor is wearing under her lab coat? Khaki and red!

Is it wrong that I don't want the woman selling me Band-Aids to be wearing the same uniform as the woman who is putting a Band-Aid on me after medically treating me?

Sticking it to the Pregnant Chick

For those of you who don’t know, about halfway through your pregnancy the docs start checking you for gestational Diabetes. I had actually had an even earlier test because I was high-risk, and it was negative. But when it came time for my actual test, I was borderline.

I begged to retake the test, but my regular OB was out on maternity leave and try as I might to explain OVER and OVER that I had just come from 2 weeks in Cape Cod and had not exactly been sticking to a reasonable diet, they sent me in for the fasting glucose test. Which, under normal circumstances, is not fun. You chug this horrible sugar drink and sit there and let it work its magic until you feel like you may pass out and then they draw your blood every hour.

Now, when you factor in that I was 6 months pregnant and not allowed to eat for 8 hours before the test and three hours during, you’ve got one hell of a cranky fat chick on your hands, I’m just saying.

So the people who check me in are SOOOOO nice! They say they’re so sorry I have to suffer, but it will be done soon. They offer me water and show me where to sit to get the best wireless signal (because no way was I taking freaking PTO for this!) and tell me to just go on back when my hour is up.

So I go back for my first blood draw and this woman is sitting there with a sour face. Right off the bat, she’s just kind of unnecessarily put out by the fact that I am going to be plaguing her for the next 3 hours. Like I’m having a damn fiesta here trying not to hurl, thanks.

So conversationally I tell her what I told the doctor: that I ate nothing but junk for two weeks! Dude, I even had a sundae for dinner…and finished the evening off with ice cream cake. I’m positive I’m not Diabetic, I tell her. I’m just a hormonally effed up pig! I had my dad test me three days ago and I was low!

Look, I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a little sympathy? Even just a “we’ll see, just relax.” Instead she sighs and goes “you might as well face it, you’re Diabetic.”

WHAT? You haven’t so much as opened the damn syringe!

So I’m already put out because you know what? You work in a maternity ward, you should be used to hungry whiny pregnant chicks. I’m not the first, I won’t be the last. Have some damn bedside manner if you’re not going to have pity!

Then to further make me LOATHE her with the fire of 1,000 suns, she refuses to listen to me on something I am actually pretty medically accurate on. I don’t know what the official medical term is, but I’ve got sucky veins. I’ve never come out of a blood draw without looking like I’ve gone a few rounds with a prizefighter. The constant misfires and mistakes have made me pretty good at pointing out to the lab techs where they might find a good vein.

And, as I told Little Miss Stormy Cloud, you ain’t gonna find one in my right arm. She sighs at me and says “I can’t very well take 4 blood draws from one arm, I have to do two and two.” I sigh right back at her “you can try, but you’ll be lucky to get one from the right arm.”

She purses her sour little lemon face and proceeds to STAB THE CRAP OUT OF MY RIGHT ARM and then has the guts to say to me “gee, this vein probably won’t even have enough for one draw.” Did I not…I mean, were we having the same conversation????

So as I am cursing her name and about to go total snob and ask for a new lab tech, I happen to glance up at the cabinets above her work space and I see her sour lemon face next to a ruddy-faced kid HOLDING A RIFLE STANDING BY A DEER CARCASS WITH HIS DAD. Oh but it explains so much! And yet, where the hell but in the freaking country is that considered appropriate office décor??

Incidentally, days later after I’d gone through a tube of concealer trying to cover the bruises that bizzo left, she called me to tell me I DIDN’T HAVE DIABETES, AFTER ALL. Suck it, Bambi Killer, tell your story walking!

And then a week later when I was finally cleared to get the swine flu shot, who should walk in but Deer Carcass Mom?? I looked at Scott pleadingly, but there was nothing he could do and I admit I was a teensy bit sarcastic when I said “probably best to do the left side this time,” and mayyyybe I pointed at the still visible bruises on my right? I can’t be sure, those were trying times. But there was no mistaking that shot went in a LOT harder than it had to.