Year 2: Week 9

Dear Zayde,


This week I learned that it's impossible to visit my allergist without getting poked. Last time, I was bombarded with a slew of tiny pokes. This time I just got one poke, but it was in the arm, and you know how I feel about people holding down my arms. Mommy explained that I was getting a triple vaccination called the MMR, which is necessary for staying healthy and not getting some pretty horrible diseases that your generation often couldn't avoid. Apparently, there are parents who don't want to get their kids this particular vaccine (as well as many others), and this puts all us yet-to-be-vaccinated kids at risk for contracting these once-almost-eradicated viruses. From this experience, I learned that being well-intentioned doesn't make a parent well-informed, and chances are that Mommy won't send me to a preschool that doesn't mandate compliance with vaccination schedules. I had to go to the allergist's office for this particular vaccine because my pediatrician's office won't give it to kids with a egg allergy, even though there's no risk of a reaction. It's their "policy," and they wouldn't budge, even after Mommy explained that she'd done extensive research with the CDC and through her online course with Dr. Paul Offit, who is a vaccine expert and works at the school that you and Mommy attended. I guess that means that this week I learned that sometimes doctors are wrong. I'm going to put that one in my file of "things to remember for the future" because it sounds important.

The good thing I learned at the allergist's office is that I must've done really well on the blood work test because my "numbers look promising," and within the next year I get to take another exam called the "baked goods test." It involves Mommy baking a cake and then bringing it to the allergist's office, where we have some sort of cake-eating party for a few hours. Count me in!

In other, non-medical news, I've learned to follow simple directions. I can "give" a toy to someone (if I feel like it); I can "shake it" when I'm holding a toy and Mommy wants me to make a little more noise; and I can put my "hands up" as long as others in the room are doing the same so that I don't look like a moron waving my arms all by myself. What I do not do, under any circumstances, is walk on command or "come here." I am not a dog: I shall not respond to commands meant for pets. My parents haven't learned that lesson yet, but they will soon enough.


Sweeter than an egg and dairy free cake,
Zelda