Straight No Chaser

Violet, Jessica, Gabe and Rachelle

"The pediatrician has four kids, whose pictures cover the center-facing wall of her office. It's supposed to be an ego wall, and it does have its egotistical accents--framed diplomas and state-issued certificates, calligraphic printout of the Hippocratic Oath--but the photos are what stand out. She says she arranged it that way on purpose, that patients aren't nearly so interested in a few pieces of paper as in those pictures. Real credentials. With four kids on display, and licks of pensive silver at each temple, you might not have such a hard time convincing a new mother that hers isn't the first baby to develop infections in both ears.

Two at once. Twice the screaming, twenty times the guilt. 'Shelly, my youngest, had chronic ear infections for ten years,' Dr. Sims says jovially, skimming her fingers along my daughter's tiny red neck. I flinch, gripping the strap of my purse with both index fingers. 'She was always prone to them, and then she was on the swim team for the first two years of middle school. She's in college now.'

She is checking for swelling of the baby's lymph nodes, no big deal, part of her routine at each of a dozen checkups I've sat through without freaking out. But still, it's the first time I've brought her in red-faced and screaming uncontrollably, the first time I've burst into the office twenty minutes late and near tears myself, and anyway, who knows what the doctor might find on her search for swellage. Maybe that crushed Skittle my daughter found on the carpet and swallowed before I could stop her. Maybe a handful of dimes and pennies from between the couch cushions, lodged in her miniature windpipe. Tick larvae, shrapnel, cigarette butts. Who knows?

'She will be fine,' proclaims Dr. Sims, flipping the baby onto her stomach to check the knobs of her spinal cord. Searching for lashes, whipmarks, developing humps. Thinking, probably, that such a young mother, one capable of letting two ear infections go unchecked through an entire week, might also usher her baby daughter into early-onset scoliosis, twelve years ahead of schedule. 'With the antibiotics and the drops, she'll be good to go in a few days.'

The portraits on the wall span more than twenty years, from individual pictures of blonde infants to a group shot of four chestnut-haired adults, posed and smiling. Violet, Dr. Sims's oldest, was born in May of the same year as me, and will be traveling to London with friends in a couple weeks to celebrate. In the pictures, wire-thin tortoiseshell glasses complement a poised and intelligent face. Naturally, she's a second-year student in medical school, slated for early graduation.

'She, so I just give her the medicine and the drops?' I ask idiotically, repeating the obvious. Wanting to prove myself concerned, dedicated, able.

'That's right,' says Dr. Sims, turning her over one more time. Palpating the baby's tummy pudge, she draws a giggle, and answers it with a big smile. 'Two rounds of antibiotics each day, morning and evening. Swab the insides of her ears with a Q-Tip before the drops. You won't like them'--this last in a silly baby voice, directed at my daughter, who squeals happily at the tickle of Dr. Sims's finger--'but they'll make your little ears feel like new, yes they will.' To me, 'What a happy baby. You're very lucky.'

I don't answer. These are the first giggles I've heard in a week, the period for which she's been an unbelievable terror. Something about the pediatrician, then, inspires her good behavior, her sweet elfin happy face. Maybe you'd like it if I left the room, I think, taking my daughter's hand. Talk to Dr. Sims, tell her about me. Tell her I let you get sick, in both ears. Tell her I wouldn't take you to the park this week.

Over the past year, I've learned that other women, even perfect strangers, have no qualms about passing judgment on a young mother. That, for as long as I appear the young auntie, the baby-sitter, the daytime au pair, they'll smile and exclaim over what a precious baby she is; that as soon as she gives us away--Mama?--those smiles turn to frowns, disapproving of our relative ages and my unringed left hand. The moms at the park, stay-at-home suburbanites and yuppies on maternity leave--offer endless unsolicited advice. She needs a jacket on; just because it's warm out doesn't mean she won't catch a cold. Don't let her crawl so close to the trashcan; she'll eat what someone's dropped. (Lesson learned.)

And then, more recently, If you're thinking about remarrying, start looking now, while she's little--nothing scares a man more than the thought of a bratty stepchild.

From another, a twice-married with five- and three-year-olds, Don't expose her to the men you date; you don't want her getting attached to something she can't count on.

Well, no. Naturally.

'Almost done,' announces Dr. Sims, helping her into a sitting position. She adjusts the buds of her stethoscope, warms the flat metal circle with one gloved hand and presses it to the baby's back.

She will not hear a rattle. She will not, because I don't smoke around the baby, and no one else does, either. Still, I stand, suddenly antsy. 'I'm going to step outside for a second,' I announce. 'I'll be back...in just a second.'

She nods.

I lean forward to kiss the baby's cheek. But as long as you're ratting on me, I think, straightening up to leave, tell her the good things, too. Tell her I'm still putting you first, before everything else. Tell her I don't let him get close, for you, for the ladies in the park, so you'll grow up like Violet. Tell her I won't be going to London, this May, because you'd miss your bedtime stories. And tell her what I told him, about the cigarettes. That was for you, too.

'Her ears, that's my fault,' I murmur before leaving.

Dr. Sims winks. 'She'll be fine.'"