WCB had her 18-month checkup today. Everything is going well; the doctor was excited to hear about the step-taking, although she did remind me that most 18-month-olds can run. I figure I'm 31 years old and I hardly ever run, so it can't be that big of a deal.
She also asked how much TV WCB watches every day.
"Um," I said. "Sesame Street."
"Oh, that's not very much," said the doctor, pleased, and she moved on to other things. I'd neglected to mention that I've also memorized the theme song to Jakers! The Adventures of Piggly Winks and that I am dangerously close to developing a crush on Mr. Rogers. I certainly didn't tell her that once I lay awake at night, trying to decide if Sesame Street's Bob and Allen -- Allen's the guy who runs Hooper's Store now -- are having an affair. And if they are having an affair, isn't Bob a little old for Allen? Or does Allen see past the age difference because Bob is an excellent singer, is kind to Muppets, and knows how to knit? Remember when Gina adopted Baby Marco from Guatemala, and Bob knitted her a blanket? It matched his sweater, which he also knitted. Anyway, I imagine them double-dating with Bert and Ernie.
Maybe I need to get out more.
But the high point of the appointment is when WCB had to have her hemoglobin -- that's her iron level -- tested. It's a routine test for all babies her age, and it involved blood taken from a heel stick. The doctor went over the test with me, and explained that if the result was low, we would have to go to a lab for yet another test, which would involve an actual blood draw from a vein, and it could lead to more tests to figure out why the blood counts were low, etc. etc. I figured that of course it was going to be low. Blood never does what I want it to do. Plus, I can't seem to get enough extra doctor appointments and blood tests into my life. Bring it on, I thought.
The nurse came in and told me that most babies have no problem with the heel stick -- that it looks a lot worse than it actually is. Heh, I thought; this nurse has never met WCB. (Official motto: "Why react when you can overreact?") When I told Jay the story later, he said, "Didn't you tell the nurse that WCB screams at the sight of ladybugs?"
Anyway, one heel stick, two Daffy Duck Band-Aids, and a whole lot of screaming later, we had a hemoglobin number: 13.2. That is EXCELLENT! I wish my hemoglobin was 13.2. I could not believe the pride I felt at that number, and also a teeny bit of jealousy. 13.2. A little over a year ago, I would have forgotten the number by now, if I'd even bothered to really pay attention in the first place. "Oh," I'd say to Jay later in the day, "they did some kind of a blood test and said it was OK." Now, of course, I am completely obsessed with blood numbers. I almost want to make a scrapbook page about it. My daughter has perfect blood.