Yesterday we went to the hospital for a genetic counseling appointment. It basically involved talking to the genetic counselor about our family history to see whether we have any unusual risk factors that we might pass on to the baby.
The genetic counselor was a petite little brunette in scrubs, the legs of which were covered with kids' marker drawings. She had clearly let some of her littler patients draw all over her, which I thought was pretty cool for a doctor. She also insisted that she sit in the guest chair in her office and I take her fancy leather chair, because a kid had spilled juice on the guest chair and she didn't want the King or I to get all sticky.
When we walked into her office, we had the following conversation:
Gene Doctor: Hi! [shaking hands] You must be King and Queenie, right?
Me: Uh, yeah. [She knows our names?] We are.
GD [sitting down and beginning to sketch a family tree on a blank piece of paper]: So, basically, we're just here to talk about your family today. Queenie, your mother has Alzheimer's Disease, and your younger brother has a seizure disorder, isn't that right?
Me: Eh? Actually, yes, that is right.
GD: And King, your mother has had some treatment for skin cancer, yes?
King: Yes, she has.
Me [in my head]: Wait! Um, you didn't actually read our chart, did you? Because, you know, doctors aren't supposed to do that! They're supposed to make you fill out a huge long form, and then they throw that away and ask you all the painful questions over again three times, because they can't be bothered to actually listen to you. And they are definitely not supposed to look up your name before your appointment and actually remember it when you come in their office! And let little kids draw happy faces on their pants! What kind of doctor are you???
The best kind, apparently. Too bad that unless our kid has some sort of horrific genetic disease that is our fault for passing on, we'll never see her again.