Check-ups are for parents, too

So L went for his six-year check up this afternoon.  All is well with my firstborn, as I expected. He is tall for his age, slightly lean - gets that from his father.  His hearing is perfect, as is his vision. He eats well, has been reading for over a year; basically, everything is hunky-dory.

Then our pediatrician asked how the sleeping is going.

Now, I'm not normally one prone to crying jags in front of medical personnel.  But this time, I did almost burst into tears.  I think the only thing that prevented it was the fact that I had done just that in front of my own doctor not four days earlier, and so felt that embarrassing myself in front of yet another physician might be overkill.

So I swallowed the lump and told the doctor about how my six-year-old makes it through about half the night in his own bed, then comes skulking into my bedroom and asks to sleep in my bed.  Let's ignore the implications of the fact that there is plenty of room in my king-size bed, because focusing on that sends me to my not-happy place at the moment.

Miraculously, and astoundingly, my pediatrician looked at me and said, "My second slept with me until he was eight."  

Fucking hell.

I think she said it to help me feel like less of a dysfunctional mommy, and to sympathize with my plight.  

But fucking hell.

I might not make it another two years.  Because I'm so tired from being woken up by both kids, that I'm likely to forget to look both ways when I'm crossing the street.  Or something equally as hideous.

We are going to try the sticker reward system again.  And I'm going to stick to my guns this time.

I think.