The Anarchist and the Dictator Go to the Doctor, and I Die of Embarrassment

We took the whole day off for dental/doctor appointments yesterday. The Dictator was despondent most of the day, because she knew she was getting a flu shot, and her pain tolerance is pretty much zero. The Anarchist was giddy for most of the day because going to the doctor's means a captive audience, which for the Anarchist is very best thing.

Aww...look how wholesome, and normal,
and NOT embarrassing they look! Looks
can be deceiving.

 THE DENTIST APPOINTMENT

The dentist appointment was fine, except that I maybe broke their Keurig machine and didn't tell them. Also, some kid who looked like he could be one of the college students I work with came trotting out of the back yelling, "Molly? Molly?"

Me: Yes?
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid: Hey! Um...so one of your kids. Uh...there are two of them, so I get confused...uh...the Dictator. You know her chipped tooth?
Me: Um...no?
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid: Yeah. You know. The bottom tooth that's all grey and chipped?
Me: I...uh...don't look into her mouth ever. Mouths are gross.
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid (whispering conspiratorially): Ha! Well, the chipped tooth came out in shards and I had to extract each shard separately. I didn't charge you, though.
Me (wondering if Twelve Year Old Dental Kid pulled one over on his dental superiors and if he might get fired for not charging for a shard extraction): Uh...thanks. We appreciate it.

[Twelve Year Old Dental Kid skips away...probably to play video games or whatever boys that age do]

You guys. I found out from my kids afterward that there was no way Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was going to get in trouble from the grown ups in the office. Because here's the thing...Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was not a hygienist. He was not a tech. Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was the DENTIST. He has already been through dental school. He is the Doogie Howser of teeth, probably. (Please help me, I'm getting old. This is what aging feels like, isn't it?)

The Doctor's Appointment

To set the scene, imagine me holding 17 coats (okay, three coats, but they were puffy), the Dictator in the fetal position next to me, glaring at the Doctor, and the Anarchist on the Doctor's stool, spinning ceaselessly. Then imagine the Dictator intermittently getting up to practice pirouettes and pique turns, then sitting down when she realized she was supposed to be angry.

The Fat Assassin has issues.

Doc: How is everyone?
Dictator: [lifts head and glares]
Anarchist: GOOD! Except the Dictator never plays with me and our cat is mean!

Doc: So, Anarchist, who lives in your house with you?
Anarchist: My mom, dad, sister, and the cat.
Dictator (under her breath): You mean the murder kitten?
Doc: And how is everyone getting along?
Anarchist: Everyone is getting along great. Except the cat. She has issues.

Doc: Who's going first?
Dictator (snarling): I'm going never.
Anarchist: I WILL! Because I'm braver than the Dictator. Also, she never plays with me.
Doc: So, are you ready for a hearing exam?
Anarchist: Oh my GOSH! I LOVE those things! A hearing exam is how I got my glasses!

Doc: Do you take vitamins?
Anarchist: Yeah. When my parents remember to buy them for me. Dictator doesn't though, because they NEVER remember to buy her kind.
Doc: [raises eyebrows at me]
Me: [sinks into puffy coat pile]

Doc: Do you guys drink pop?
Me: (furiously pantomiming to children that they must answer "no" because don't they remember last time?)
Kids (joyfully and emphatically): YES!
Doc: About how often?
Me: Well, usually only about once a month...
Kids (drowning me out with their enthusiasm): ALL OF THE TIME!

Doc: Anarchist, hop up on the table.
Anarchist: Why? Are you going to check all my cat bites?
Doc: Your what?!?!
Anarchist: What are you going to check?
Doc: What do I usually check?
Anarchist: My butt?
Doc: Uh...your ears and nose and throat?
Anarchist: And my cat bites?
Doc: Do you ever take the cat to the vet, Anarchist?
Me (apologetically): Well, it's been a while...a lot longer than it should have been. We actually need to do that...
Anarchist: NEVER! We NEVER take her! And she's still alive! Maybe that's why she bites me...
Me (hiding in the coat pile): Well, I mean she's an indoor cat, so...
Anarchist: When she dies we can get a puppy! A puppy will play with me, because the Dictator sure won't.

Doc: Anarchist, how are your bowel movements?
Anarchist: Do you mean POOP?! [proceeds to detail every bowel movement from the past several weeks in detail, with sound effects, song, and alarmingly specific descriptions...this conversation lasts close to 5 minutes, and can most likely be heard from the lobby...of the neighboring building]

This one can make
up lyrically impressive
songs about feces
on the spot.

Doc: Dictator, how much sleep do you get?
Me: Well, she goes to bed at 9, but she reads, so it's probably later. We try, though...
Anarchist: THE DICTATOR STAYS AWAKE UNTIL ALMOST MIDNIGHT EVERY NIGHT! I SEE HER!
Me (defensively, reasonably, with great fear of being judged): It's probably not quite midnight, Anarchist. I'm sure she...
Anarchist (butting in): It IS! I check the clock! But I sleep in, so it's fine.
Doc: Dictator, you need to get more sleep.
Dictator [very seriously, while crashing into the wall mid-pirouette]: I can't. I have to read.
Doc: Well, maybe read for a shorter period of time.
Dictator (leaping/crashing into the counter): If I did that, how could I possibly finish reading everything there is to read? Be reasonable.

Doc: Dictator, how's school?
Dictator: Boring.
Doc: Really? What kind of grades do you get?
Dictator: All A's
Doc: So what's your favorite subject?
Dictator: Science? No...Math? No...uh...none of them. I don't like any of them. I just want to dance all the time.

This one's probably plotting
the untimely demise of
her pediatrician.

Doc: You want to be a dancer when you grow up?
Dictator (appalled): Of course not!
Doc: What do you want to be?
Dictator: Uh, NOT getting a shot?

Flu immunizations enter the room. The Dictator runs to a corner and proceeds to behave like a terrified, trapped animal. The Anarchist sees this, and decides that all of the drama cannot belong to the Dictator. She immediately launches into fake tears and fake trembling, cowering behind me while shrieking and pointing at the nurse. The Dictator is chased around the room. The Anarchist screams as much as possible. Flu immunizations occur. The Anarchist laughs. The Dictator looks betrayed and enraged. She glowers a death glare at the doctor.

Doc: You can hit me if you want, Dictator.
Dictator (because hitting him wouldn't kill him, and she clearly wants him dead): No.
Anarchist (gleefully): I'LL hit 'im for ya! [proceeds to whale on doctor's arm the entire way down the hall to check-out].

All of the nurses at the nurses' station were laughing hysterically at us as we exited. I'm pretty sure the meaning of our existence as a family is to provide entertainment with our crazy antics. We are like the jesters of suburban Michigan. But while I enjoy entertaining people, I think the Bureaucrat gets to take them to their next doctor's appointment. I'll be at the vet with The Fat Assassin (murder kitten)...she's far less embarrassing.