Kid Amnesiac

Simon’s best friend without a doubt is Baron. It’s a funny pairing, because Baron is the walking expression of pure physicality, while Simon lives a life of the mind. Theirs is an opposites-attract relationship, with Baron playing Yang to Simon’s Yin. I know I’m oversimplifying, but I also feel sure that Baron has never told his parents “I watched my friends play” when they ask about his day, whereas we regularly hear this from Simon.

I value this relationship because I assume it encourages Simon to explore his physical side and to let loose some of his inhibitions. I assume Baron is a balancing factor in Simon’s life. When Simon lifts up his balled up fists to me, tells me he’s “a bad guy”, growls, and chases me, I know he learned this type of play from Baron.

But I’m also learning that everything, even friendship, is a trade-off. And the downside of Simon’s yin-yang friendship is the existence of some very literal battle scars. About three weeks ago, Ms. Jill met me at the door when I picked up Simon to tell me about a playground accident. Baron was playing around, he got a little out of control, and he pushed Simon off the slide. As in, the top of the slide. Simon cried and was very scared, and the staff had to remove him from the playground to calm him down and make sure he was ok.

Then last Thursday, I noticed a nasty looking bruise, actually a grouping of three bruises with a red splotch, over Simon’s right eye. I asked him what happened, and this is what he told me:

“Baron hit me with a rock. We were playing on the play ground and being bad guys, and he hit me with a rock on my face. I cried and cried and cried. Ms. Jill made me feel better.”

I believe him, though Ms. Jill reported that while Baron did indeed hit Simon, she didn’t think a rock was involved. I’m not mad at Baron, and I’m still glad Baron and Simon are friends. But I’m starting to think that these two require additional supervision on the playground before “boys will be boys” turns into someone getting hurt!

I adore Simon’s regular pediatrician. I think he’s a great diagnostician, and I know he’s attentive and really cares about our whole family. He takes a gentle approach to Simon that has all but eliminated Simon’s anxiety in the examining room, and he approaches Matt and me as intelligent adults doing our best. His only negative is consistently running behind schedule, the natural result of his being attentive and thoughtful with all of his patients.

Yesterday more than ever I could see how worth the wait he is. Thursday Simon’s allergies flared up again, accompanied by a nasty cough. That night, Simon coughed in a barky, seal-like way for three full hours: from 9:00 to 10:00, 12:00 to 12:30, 2:00 to 2:30, and 6:00 to 7:00. It was a long, restless night for all of us.

Friday morning, after another solid hour of croup-ish coughing, I decided to see the pediatrician. It being the Friday before Derby, I took the first available appointment with no regard to which doctor we’d be seeing. As it happens, that put us with a doctor I had seen once before and had not hit it off with. Still, I took the appointment happily, chatted with Simon about the new doctor, and went into the exam with an open mind. We can all make bad first impressions, and some days we’re all petty and overly critical.

I do not like him then or now.

I do not like him anyhow.

I do not like this doctor, so you see.

Neither did Simon. How could he?

Not for a cough. Not for a scrape.

Not for keratosis [diagnosed in both of us]. Not for halitosis.

He offered no greeting. No adequate seating.

When he shone his light bright,

He gave Simon a fright!

Then called him a “flower”

With a bit of a glower.

With the smirk on his face,

He was devoid of all grace.

I’d say he was presumptuous,

Overbearing, and unctuous!

I do not like this doctor, so you see.

Neither did Simon. How could he?

Apologies to Dr. Seuss there.

Our visit culminated with the giving of unwanted advice on potty-training. (Dude, you don’t know this kid, and you are not his regular pediatrician. Do shut up, please.) After I explained what we’ve done, where we are, and my very real questions about Simon’s physiological readiness as opposed to any mental blocks he might have, I was given one-size-fits-all advice and told not think about it.

“Sometimes you have to just go with the flow and not think too much.”

“But I like thinking about things!” came my rejoinder, attempted in a faux jokey, breezy tone that in the South means “Stop talking now.”

He didn’t take the hint. “I can see that. You seem very articulate.”

Now maybe that was an innocent compliment. Maybe he’s so used to dealing with children that he forgets that what sounds nice and supportive to a child sounds condescending and insulting to a grown-up. Was this merely a Biden moment? Maybe.

But honestly, I’m going with my first instinct here. Also, for the record, every single parenting decision that I have made that has worked out well—from nursing in the early days to discipline in the later ones—has come from careful observation of my child coupled with careful reading of the available literature. I have surely made mistakes along the way and will surely make more, but “not thinking” is simply not an option for any of us! Nor is seeing this doctor again.

Ah, perspective. For a year and a half, we’ve been coaxing Simon to use the pedals on his tricycle. For the same time, he’s been resisting our efforts, quite happy to Flintstone it around the block, and quite insistent that we push him up any hills.

If we tried to show him how to use the pedals, he squawked.

“Simon, why don’t you try to pedal?”

“No, I don’t want to.”

And then:

“Mommy, I need help. Can you push me up the heavy hill?” [Heavy is his word for steep. As it makes semantic sense to us and even seems kind of clever, we haven’t corrected him.]

Tuesday night, we went on a ride to admire the azaleas. Their pink blooms are putting on a show, and Simon is entranced. On the way down from some hill or other on Murray Avenue, something clicked. The feet that had been on the pedals only when I was pushing him magically stayed on the pedals after I quit pushing him. He was off under his own steam!

Then he hit a hill. It wasn’t much of one, but Simon’s tricycle is too small for him now, so he couldn’t get sufficient leverage to power his own way up.

“Hey Simon,” I say in a bright voice, “This hill is kind of steep. I’ll help you.”

What I did not know was that a minute earlier, the rules had changed.

“NOOOOOOO!” he screamed at me, his voice displaying a powerful admixture of wrath and indignation. “I do it myself!”

Looks like we need to bike shop.