We took the kids in for their double-barrelled yearly check-ups today, complete with a bunch o' shots (three for Cady Gray, two for Archer), a hearing and vision check for Cady Gray, and of course, a lot of waiting around in a small exam room.
Like almost everyone, I'll bet, I have vivid memories of my pediatrician's office from childhood. The smell is what I remember best -- rubber and paper, like if the downtown library was next to a tire factory. I can remember some individual visits, even, like the one where my younger brother got tested for all the allergies in the world, all over his back. And the ones where the big trigger needle came out instead of the syringe. And the one when my dad brought me from the farm where I'd complained of cramps, and we were told that I was probably getting my first period.
It's strange to realize that my children will have vivid memories of the clinic they've been going to for years, this new building with no discernible smell (to me) and no salient features (to me). Someday they'll be able to recall the Greatest Story Ever Told lying on top of the book basket, or the red-upholstered stool on smooth-gliding wheels, or the portrait of a Pekingese by the nurse practitioner hanging on the wall.
What do you remember about your childhood checkups?