Well Baby Visit

Rob says I can’t call it a well-baby visit when the baby in question is seven. I disagree.

As we were leaving yesterday, I noticed that Ashton had paired her less-than-demure-light-up Twinkletoes sneakers with equally less-than-demure pink, purple and silver sparkly socks (note to self – lose those socks in the wash this weekend). My plea to please change into socks less likely to induce a seizure was met with serious resistance until Rob walked in, took one look and very dryly pronounced her 25% clown. “25% clown” was an instant hit with the adults and is currently the quickest way to provoke a foot stomp and dramatic exit. We love it.

In any case, our well baby was found to have extremely loose ligaments in her knees. She does this odd thing where she can roll her knees back and forth, but thus far my concern has been limited to keeping her from doing it while walking (looks like she has spaghetti legs) and while she’s sitting next to me on the sofa. It’s hard to concentrate on Burn Notice when the cushions are rocking and rolling with her patellae. Dr. T has never seen a child do this and was amazed that with just a bit of pressure, it would be possible to push Ashton’s kneecaps out of joint. As a parent, I am less amazed and more concerned by the apparently shoddy construction habits of her general contractor - i.e., handwringing and “oh I just knew I should have taken in more calcium during the 21st week of gestation”. The long and short of it is that my high energy, high speed child is at increased risk for tearing her ACL, especially if she goes on to sports that will pivot her knees. Fortunately, some of that risk will be mitigated as her quadriceps develop and stabilize her knees.

Quads. Ashton. That’s funny. It would be funnier for you, dear reader, if I wasn’t so concerned about her finding this blog and having a meltdown when she’s fourteen – I’d post a picture of her decidedly not muscular legs. If you are a van Staveren, you know exactly what legs to which I refer.

I was feeling particularly snuggly and prone to coddling my delicate little flower until about ten o’clock last night when Sage started to scream that her finger hurt. Why? Ashton wanted to know if a bedside lamp was hot and convinced her three year old sister to touch it. One burned and blistered fingertip later, Sage had learned a hard lesson about the manipulative tactics of the older sibling. It’s a lesson I thought she learned during the “try to fly and I’ll catch you” episode that culminated in a trip to urgent care, but three year olds have retentive memory issues.

Sage, bless her heart, has decided that she is ready for preschool. At home. She refers to this concept as “preschool at my house” and much to my amusement has steadfastly refused to shorten it to “homeschooling” – which is essentially where we appear to be headed. I’m very excited for Rob, who I’m sure is simply thrilled. I have big plans involving school supply shopping, magnetic letters, books, flash cards and activities that will probably culminate in her stubborn refusal to do anything but sit at the kitchen table and draw very tiny monsters in one corner of a sheet of blank paper and insist that we keep and display them all. But I have to try, because that is what mothers do. If we throw enough mud at a wall, eventually, we hope, just a little will stick.

Not that Sage is a wall, or education is mud.

Perhaps my own mother should have worked on metaphors just a little more intensely…