BB has a history of freaking out whenever we go to the pediatrician. We’ve seen several different doctors, so the common denominator is BB. But for whatever reason, she has a great time at the ophthalmologist.

And it’s not just the shots. You’d think looking in BB’s ears was the same as trying to cut them off.

Back in June I glanced at the calendar and noticed that BB’s 2-year physical was a day before her ophthalmologist appointment. That’s not going to work.

Last time, the ophthalmologist sent us home with a sheet of pictures to practice. That’s the vision test they use for little kids before they know their letters. BB and I were all practiced up. The wild card would be if BB would be willing to talk in front of the doctor. Not her strong point. And terrifying her with a physical 2 days before didn’t seem like a great idea.

I postpone the physical. I tell BB we’re headed to the eye doctor. She shouts in excitement,

“Fishies?!”

“Oh no, sorry, that’s the other doctor’s office.”

The ophthalmic assistant sits BB in a chair and tries to get her to peer into a machine to measure her corneas. She tells BB,

“Hold still and look straight.”

Who expects a 2-year-old to be able to hold still?

She tries again,

“Please hold still.”

I can assure you adding a please to your request is not going to make a difference. The assistant keeps trying. Another assistant approaches and offers,

“She might be too young for this.”

Thank you!

We move onto the vision test with the same assistant. She puts up several letters on the screen. I interject,

“BB is two. She doesn’t know her letters. We practiced the pictures that the doctor gave us last time.”

“I prefer the letters because it’s more accurate than the pictures.”

Okay, IF BB KNEW HER LETTERS. I don’t know what else to say. BB has identified one, she declares,

“Circle!”

The assistant keeps pressing her. I’m frustrated. We’re using up all of BB’s goodwill and not accomplishing much. We finally head into the office to see the doctor. There’s the TV screen I was waiting for. BB shouts,

“Mickey Mouse!”

Yes, a Mickey Mouse video. Thank goodness.

The doctor comes in, reviews some notes and says,

“Looks like her vision test went well.”

“It did? We practiced the pictures you gave us, but the assistant insisted on letters.”

“Really? Lets try the pictures.”

BB names the pictures, asks for a sticker and we go on our way for another 4 months.

A week later we head in for her physical. BB shouts,

“Mickey Mouse!”

“No, sorry, that’s the other doctor’s office. But this one has the fishies.”

“Fishies!”

We check in and a nurse approaches us in the waiting room.

“The doctor is running 40 minutes late.”

SIGH. That’s a lot of time with the fishies. We push through. Every ten minutes BB asks,

“Mickey Mouse?”

The nurse shows us into the exam room. BB asks,

“Toys?”

The eye doctor’s exam room had a lot of toys. There are no toys in this room, but tearing up the paper on the exam table is fun, so is rifling through the drawers, typing on the doctor’s keyboard and touching every possible surface.

The doctor manages to examine BB without any crying. Success. Then the nurse comes in with her vaccination. I brace for the worst. BB makes no sound. No flinch. Nothing. The shot is done. BB breaks the silence,

“Sticker?”

We go to get her blood drawn. Same deal. She doesn’t whimper, doesn’t move, nothing. Is my child ok? Has she all of sudden become unable to feel pain? The blood draw is complete. BB speaks up again,

“Sticker?”

She’s taking this sticker business very seriously. The phlebotomist offers her several stickers,

“You did better than some adults!”

And someday she’ll even know her letters.