Things that happened at today's pediatrician appointment:
• During the interminable wait between the nurse checking his height, weight, etc. and the doctor actually entering the room, Riley gruntingly filled his freshly-changed diaper with the sort of digestive output that requires half a container of wipes, a steely constitution, and a vigorous blast or two of Febreeze afterwards.
• I learned that he's now average in height, low-to-average in weight, but still sports a South-Park-sized head (90th percentile, good god).
• On no less than twenty separate occasions, despite my increasingly loud distractive blather, Riley heard a male voice outside the appointment room door and began yelling "DA DA? DA DA? DA DA?" before bursting into bitter tears, sending runners of snot all down his naked torso.
• He discovered a childproof plastic lock attached to one of the cabinets, and proceeded to experience the greatest meltdown known to mankind when he couldn't wrench it free. I have my limits: eventually I ripped the damn thing off and gave it to him.
• The nurse kept asking me questions that under normal circumstances—ie, without a screaming, snotting, pooping baby—I would be able to answer right away, but instead I kept making these mouthbreathingly stupid noises like "Uhhhhhhh" and "Ohhhhhmmmmmm" as I tried to access the flatlined part of my brain that contained information like how many words Riley is speaking and how many ounces of milk he drinks per day and whether or not he can walk backwards (okay, to be totally honest I'm still not sure about that last one).
• When the doctor was discussing Riley's eating habits and whether he's learning to use a spoon (sometimes) and fork (not yet because I like his eyeballs just how they are, unpunctured) he also randomly mentioned that we shouldn't bother giving him a knife for a few years, and I immediately let out this totally inappropriate snort—"SNKKKK!"—because DUH, I mean really, no knives, you don't SAY, and then I sort of choked on the snort because it tickled my throat so basically I was like: "SNKKK-KAH! KAH! KAH!" like a cat trying to hork up a tennis-ball-sized furball, or maybe like the mating call of some exotic longbilled jungle bird, and I guess my point here is that neither my son nor I managed to present ourselves with any dignity whatsoever during this entire appointment.
Oh, and as the doctor was prying Riley's scream-hole open with the tongue depressor, I looked in and all I could see were angry pink gums being broken by emerging teeth. His eyeteeth are coming in. His molars are coming in. He's got like EIGHT TEETH coming in, all at once. This is exactly what the pediatrician wrote on his sheet:
"HEALTHY BUT TEETHING BIG TIME!!!"
You know, that really explains a few things around here.