The child is well.
To celebrate our first "Momma and Skipper and Duchess Day," we went to get Duchess a checkup. She is, as always, robustly, glowingly healthy, and rocking a 97th percentile height. (Her growth curves are a marvel to behold, a rising hymn to tall genes, a relatively healthy environment, and good nutrition.) As far as I can tell, the charts think she's going to be at least 5'10". The "8-11-year-old" version of the pre-checkup questionnaire offered the option to discuss a variety of topics with the doctor, and at Duchess's request, I circled "Puberty" on the form. The doctor gave Duchess a brief, age-appropriate speech about puberty, and asked if she had any questions. Duchess said she did not.
We took advantage of the opportunity to catch Skipper up on vaccinations, so she got two shots. She held still for them, earning herself hot cocoa with whipped cream afterward. (Duchess, who didn't get any shots, but explained that she got a very painful paper cut under her tongue from the disposable thermometer, also got cocoa.) Then we went to Powell's to buy the book about puberty the doctor recommended to Duchess, a book that has already relieved Duchess of the alarming misapprehension that her breasts would arrive by growing to their full size abruptly overnight.
We took advantage of the opportunity to catch Skipper up on vaccinations, so she got two shots. She held still for them, earning herself hot cocoa with whipped cream afterward. (Duchess, who didn't get any shots, but explained that she got a very painful paper cut under her tongue from the disposable thermometer, also got cocoa.) Then we went to Powell's to buy the book about puberty the doctor recommended to Duchess, a book that has already relieved Duchess of the alarming misapprehension that her breasts would arrive by growing to their full size abruptly overnight.
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