Stanley

Today June had her 4 month check-up. She's a robust 15-and-a-half-pounds (70th percentile), 25 inches long (65th percentile) and is in picture perfect health. My heart soared at the news. As much as I gripe about being one more ignored phone call away from creditors sending the hired goons, and living where God lost his shoes, I've got this exceptionally healthy baby and, holy crap, am I grateful.

In addition, she is, and this a professional assessment, a staggeringly good natured baby. I woke her up from her nap in the carseat, handed her to the doctor to be undressed, prodded and measured and June simply smiled through it all. She got some more vaccinations -- a process that reduced her to tears, but only for a minute. June's pediatrician shook her head and said, "She's a really good baby. Don't tell your friends.

Whoops! Too late. Obnoxious braggart alert. As if the flipbook on Facebook wasn't bad enough.

But I have to give props to her doctor, whom we were referred to by friends. Mellow, knowledgeable, available and responsive, she exceeded all my expectations for what a pediatrician could and should be. Her office is clean and quiet, and her staff friendly and professional. I assumed that pediatricians' offices mainly served to strike fear into the hearts of children and their parents alike. At least that's what I had experienced.

No offense to Dr. Stanley (name changed to protect the questionably innocent), my pediatrician.

Now, don't get me wrong, Dr. Stanley was a nice enough guy -- a sort of good looking older fellow, too. He kind of had a Tom Brokaw thing working. But his office was like a Calcutta bus station. You've never seen such strains of communicable disease and misery as you did in his waiting room. Screaming children, irritable parents, pissed-off receptionists, "Highlights" magazines abused eight ways from Sunday... it was horrible. Add into the mix stacks upon stacks of wooden puzzles with more pieces missing than intact, and an antique typewriter collection serving as a petri dish for even more violent maladies than those sickly brats came in with. On top of that they were an absurd safety hazard. Those things were about 40 pounds a piece and nothing but sharp edges. What a bad freaking decorating theme for a 10-by-10 foot room filled with nothing but spazzy kids delirious with fever.

And man oh man, they call it a waiting room for a reason. It didn't matter if there were two people in that room or 20, you still expected to wait a good 45 minutes before Dr. Stanley could see you, all the while sitting in a toddler-sized wooden chair and praying to sweet Jesus that the kid with eye patch kept his distance.

The nice thing was I didn't see Dr. Stanley all that often. As I've mentioned, being child No. 3 had its disadvantages, but it also had its advantages. Like only getting to the doctor if I was vomiting blood or had a toe dangling off my foot or something. A visit to Dr. Stanley meant you were real dang sick, or were up for a yearly well visit. Kids at school would be out for a couple days with the stomach flu, coming back and saying something like, "Well, the doctor said I should take it easy, and..." "Wait a sec," I'd interrupt. "You went to the doctor for the stomach flu?" Phhhllllt, I thought. Whiny first-born wimps.

I have heaped a lot of resentment onto Dr. Stanley, thanks to one of my life's greatest unmet promises. Well, actually laughably late met. When I was about 11 or 12, I saw Dr. Stanley for a routine physical. He gave me the once-over and then told my mom, in the room, "Expect Kerry to have some physical changes soon, like getting breasts."

I was horrified. And a little thrilled. I remember recounting Dr. Stanley's words to my Sacred Heart classmates while being tossed around on the Tumble Gym in the school yard. Only I wouldn't say "breasts" because that simply was not done if you were 11 or 12 at Sacred Heart. I'm sure I just pointed to the region which triggered a delighted cacophony of "ewwwwws" and "groosssses."

So there I was, 11 or 12 and on the cusp of chesty greatness. Or so I thought.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Aaaaaaand waited.

I think something popped up around junior year of college, but then it was due in large part to my steady diet of Crepe Nutellas, foot-long meringues and deux franc wine during my semester abroad in Paris. Yes, I grew a rack, but I also had the butt to match. I got home and everyone back at school thought I had gone to Europe and gotten implants. "Look down, people!" I'd wail. "Look down!"

Alors.

But so far June's pediatrician's educated guesses have been pretty accurate. Her rapid weight gain will normalize, her grabbing will become more precise and graceful, she will recognize her name more and more. When we got home I put her in her little exersaucer thing for the first time. Well, Greg's put her in before but it was my first time witnessing it. She's still too small for it, so I stuffed a towel behind her and a paperback copy of "Shantaram" under her footie-clad toes and watched her fiddle with the toys mounted to its plastic tray. I cried as she stared, fascinated at the little pandas on the red bamboo seesaw and swatted at the little spinning tucan. When did she get so old, I thought.

And tomorrow, older still.

Wah.