The doctor opened the door to the waiting room. Amid the Fisher-Price doll house parts and the back issues of Highlights magazine, there, perched on the sofa, was 14-year-old me. And while most people during a Los Angeles summer would choose shorts and sandals, I opted for a beige jersey maxi dress, standard-issue Army work belt, leather lace up ankle boots, and black banded flat straw hat tipped at a jaunty angle.
I thought I caught the doctor eying my thought provoking outfit in what I assumed was admiration. Actually, it turned out to be plain old confusion.
Her eyes scanned the room. "Are you Raina Moore's mother?" she asked.
"No, I'm Raina Moore."
"What?" She looked at the papers on her clipboard then back at me. "You're too old to see a pediatrician."
I rolled my eyes thinking, Tell me something I don't know.
Dr. Morton, the pediatrician I'd seen for most of my life, had recently retired. But my mother, God bless her, wasn't ready to retire my childhood. Over my loud, Oscar® worthy protests, she'd made my annual check up not with a regular MD, but with a new pediatrician. So here I was, with a full face of make up, high heels, and pubes, going to see the kiddy doc.
I picked up my purse and navigated the Lego strewn terrain towards the examining room.
Her eyes searched the waiting room once again. "Wait, are you here alone?"
I guess my mom had hand selected which parts of my impending adulthood made her comfortable. Her not having to take an afternoon off of work to drive me somewhere = comfortable. Her confronting the fact that I was sneaking cigarettes and had the power to reproduce = uncomfortable.
Anyway, that was the last time I ever went to a pediatrician.