For the last couple of months, I’ve been taking the youngest (now 7 months) to the chiropractor.
For those unfamiliar with babies being taken to chiropractors – it’s basically a place where exhausted mothers take their unsettled babies, when nothing else seems to be working; praying for a miracle sleep-cure. The verdict is still out on whether or not it’s working (I’ve probably got more chance of a full night’s sleep if I start paying the chiropractor to come and babysit); but what harm can five minutes of gentle massage do?!
It’s five minutes of which someone else is holding my little Barnacle Baby – I can relax my own aching, twisted back; hide in the corner (in a bid to ease any separation anxiety she
might will experience once she realizes she’s been removed from my hip) and appreciate the fine arse art of chiropracting.
Sitting in the little waiting room (that is, when we arrive before our appointment, with enough time to actually sit), surrounded by professional adults (or adult professionals), doing professional adulty things. Everyone looks relaxed, like they’ve got it all together. Not a care in the world.
I feel as though I must stick out like a sore thumb; I’m sure I have the word ‘FRAZZLED’ tattooed to my forehead. I simultaneously pray to absorb some professional-adult-ism and to be absorbed into the carpet.
The chiropractor himself is a man of few words – apart from the occasional goo-goo to the babe. The lack of conversation; the amount of times we’ve arrived late or just in time for our appointment; the chaos that we bring into his confined little office; and the amount of exclamation marks I used on the initial questionnaire; make me feel like he probably considers me a bit of a twat.
I mean – we’ve been known to take giant plastic candy canes to our appointment for Christ’s sake.
I consider writing a list of my achievements prior to becoming a mother; handing out copies of my resume to prove that while I may not be able to get my baby to sleep (or arrive at an appointment on time); I am in actual fact a successful, contributing member of society.
The reality however, is that one half of my ‘resume’ is screaming at the top of her lungs for her mother; and the other is playing with the height adjustment pedals on the bed. Fuck.
I think it might be time to change chiropractors.