Recently, I took my youngest son to the pediatrician for his well-baby check.

It was his 18-month check up.

He was 22 months old. (He is a third child. He’s lucky we even remember to take him to the doctor at all.)

Typically, we have a short wait in the waiting area where all the toys and books are located. Perhaps, they do this because they think I can be easily fooled into thinking that we aren’t going to have a long wait if I am escorted out of the general holding area quickly.

We meet the nice nurse, who weighs and measures my beautiful child, so that I can then compare him to a zillion other kids. (But since he’s 22 months, it should skew the numbers in his favor.)

Then we are ushered into a teeny-tiny exam room filled with all sorts of shiny gadgets and gizmos that attract the attention of curious little boys. I then spend the next 15-45 minutes wrestling the child off the counter, away from the stethoscope and out from behind the exam table. Seriously, couldn’t we have waited a little longer out in the open area, sans tongue depressors, cotton balls, drawers filled with fun packages and a trash can filled with infectious diseases?

Perhaps, there is a hidden camera to see how I really parent in stressful situations. Maybe the doctor is viewing a closed-circuit television assessing how I interact with my child, how the child responds to me and his environment.

He is furiously taking notes on how well I am handling a small child, in confined quarters, amidst dangerous objects. It’s like the parenting Olympics. I imagine the receptionist will hand me a medal when I leave.

Finally, the doctor arrives to examine the most amazing 22-month-old specimen he has ever seen.

Actually, since this is my third child, I no longer expect the look of awestruck wonder from my pediatrician when he is assessing my child and the milestones that he has conquered. It doesn’t hurt my feelings when he acts like this child is just like every other he has examined over his career.

I learned this the hard way. I waltzed into his office carrying my oldest for his 8-week check-up. He was exactly 8 weeks old.

I was completely astounded when the doctor was not as impressed as I was with this child’s sleeping habits, his spit-bubble abilities and his obvious advancement over the other children his age. That was my first parental reality check. I’ve reigned in my thoughts on my kid’s outstanding abilities since then.

After my recent visit, the nice nurse handed me some brochures on 18-month milestones, potential behavior problems and food information. I no longer keep these handouts for future reference like I did with my other kids.

In fact, I knew these handouts were to be taken with a grain of salt when I read one about toddler sleep habits. It went as far as to give ideas on how to wake ourselves up if we sleep through a small person climbing into our bed. You know, bells on the doors and chairs under the knobs type ideas.

Huh? Why on earth would I wake myself up? The whole point is for me to sleep all night, uninterrupted. If my kid can climb into my bed without waking me up, we have achieved something.

After the visit, I waltzed up to the receptionist, snickering to myself as I imagined her awarding me the gold medal in Exam Room Corralling.

Instead of a medal ceremony, she asked if I’d like to set up his next appointment.

“No thanks. I’ll give you a call,” I replied.

I couldn’t help but a notice a snicker of her own.

<i>Judy Daniell is married with three sons. She works part-time.</i>