Growing

It's Monday night and I realize that I should probably talk to Ari about her doctor's appointment. Because she's old enough now to understand, old enough to be informed and prepared. But I realize that I'm not even entirely sure what they will be doing. I tell her the doctor will measure her, and she looks at me quite seriously as she answers, "I'm 15 tall." I tell her she can show the doctor how she knows her ABCs and she gives me a blank stare as she replies, "What ABCs?"

She drifts away from me, chirping, "Watch me" as she dances. She can spin in a circle now, her newest feat. She is dressed in her Snow White costume, and she informs me that she wants to wear it to the doctor's. I propose a compromise. "How about you wear a regular dress?" She agrees.

It's Tuesday afternoon, and we're getting ready to head to the doctor's. Tony talks Ari into wearing jeans since it's a chilly, rainy day, and she is fine with that. She insists on picking out her shirt, though--her purple Jasmine T-shirt. Tony tells me she made up a song earlier, singing her doctor's name over and over.

We arrive, and by the time Ari is done going potty (and peeing in a cup), it's time to start the exam. Height and weight are first. She is 32.7 pounds and 38 3/4" tall (though I round it up in my head to 39"). Later, Tony points out all the 3s, saying that she's 3 years old, 3 feet 3 inches tall, and 33 pounds.

The eye test is next, and it takes us a few minutes to get her to understand the concept of covering one eye without squeezing it shut. She shifts and shrinks into shyness, seeming uncomfortable with these strange instructions. They have a chart of shapes for kids her age, and she calls almost everything an octagon, because that's the newest shape she's learned. Later, when Tony wonders out loud if she does have a vision problem, I brush his words off and say she was just being shy. But, based on our own poor eyesight, it's surely only a matter of time before she gets glasses.

They try a hearing test and can get no results. It's like no test I've ever seen, so when it doesn't work, I don't know why. When the doctor checks her ears later, she asks if Ari has had a cold recently. Tony and I exchange looks and answer with a slightly-puzzled "No." The doctor says she sees a little fluid in Ari's ears, and we arrange to schedule a follow-up appointment to try the hearing test again.

I watch her squirm, uncomfortable with the attention, the odd things she's being asked to do. Sometimes she softly says "no" and hides her face in her hands; other times, she cooperates cautiously. When the scope is in her ear, she twitches and says it tickles. When they ask her name, she proudly recites her first, middle and last. She looks slightly impressed when the doctor listens to her stomach with the stethoscope and "hears" what she had for lunch, not knowing that Daddy is mouthing the answers behind her head.

And I sit quietly and marvel at my giant little girl, so unsure and timid when the focus is on her. In the moments when the doctor's attention is on us instead of her, she scampers around the examining table, loving the crinkly-paper sounds she can make. When I stand next to her, she slides over to me and wraps her arms around my arm for a hug. I ruffle her curls with my free hand, wondering when she got so big and wondering when I became so sentimental about it.

When it's all over, she is rewarded with a sticker and a lollipop, and I nudge her to say "thank you." She makes short work of the lollipop in the car and carefully places her sticker on the leg of her jeans while we praise her for cooperating so well. When we get home, Tony reminds her that he promised her 2 tattoos, and she surveys her small collection. She selects one that's hearts and flowers... and one that's a firetruck. I smile as I apply one to each of her arms. That's my girl.