Ouchie is right

We went through the usual array of checkup activities: weighing, measuring, checking blood pressure and pulse, checking her hearing, etc. She did well on all of them, including the hearing test (which I will bring up the next time I tell her to do something and she says, "Huh? I didn't hear you.")

One of the things I talked to Dr. Baker about was her tendency to drift off into what we call Samland.

Her teacher just mentioned this again to me during our second parent-teacher conference (as a side note, Sam's reading above grade level, and I'm SO proud!), and she actually docked her on a few categories because of it. Mrs. Bangert said she'll be teaching, and Sam's looking at her, but she can tell Sam's not hearing what she's saying at all.

I've seen this plenty of times at home, too. I've discovered it helps her snap out of it if I walk directly in front of her, say her name, put one finger in front of her face and move it to point at my eyes.

It's a great trait when I want her to wander off into the playroom and entertain herself for an extended period while I focus on Noah. It's not such a great trait when her teacher wants her to pay attention to a story.

So we talked about this while Noah ripped pages in one of the office's Disney books and while Sam flew around the exam room wearing a hospital gown with it open in the front.

After making sure she wasn't having seizures -- which I, frankly, never even considered -- Dr. Baker asked how well she sleeps.

"Horrible," I said. "She's always been an atrocious sleeper. Getting her to sleep is hard, getting her to stay asleep is harder. I'd say that, more than half the time, she ends up in my bed in the middle of the night.

"She has trouble going to sleep because of the 'bad pictures' in her head, which is a lot tougher to deal with than a fear of monsters -- which I could handle with some monster spray."

Here Dr. Baker nodded in his comforting, yeah-I-understand-that-completely way.

"Since she was about 9 months old, I've told people sleeping with her is like sleeping with a train wreck. She's constantly moving and kicking and rolling and talking."

Maybe, he suggested calmly, her attention problem comes at least in part from her always being sleep deprived.

Well, hell, I honestly never thought of that. Maybe that's also why we've been having behavior problems with her and why she's been so openly defiant with me in the mornings.

So we talked about possible causes for chronic bad sleep. We agreed to rule out the physical causes -- which apparently include anemia and a vitamin K deficiency, to my surprise -- before we consider other possibilities.

And right now, you experienced moms out there are groaning because you know what this requires.

Blood.

From a 5-year-old.

I would have made out better taking a turnip into the lab.

Sam was perfectly OK with this until we started to walk back the lab hallway. I had told her we needed to go have someone draw blood from her, and it didn't occur to her until it was almost time to ask any questions.

"Mom, how are they going to get the blood out of me?" she asked, looking at me like I was going to say, "Oh, they'll just chop you in the head with an ax."

"They'll use a small needle and put it into your arm," I said. "You'll feel a -"

"I don't wanna do it!" she hollered, stopping dead. "Is it gonna be like when they gave me a shot? That was a needle, too, right?"

(I'd like to take this moment to point out that it was now 12:30 p.m., at least 45 minutes past Noah's drop-dead nap time.)

When we got into the lab, I imposed upon one of the phlebotomists and handed her a tired, hungry, separation-anxiety-filled Noah with a snack bag. I sat down and held Sam, and we chatted with two of the nice ladies in there for a minute.

Then, the needle went in.

And they had to take three tubes of blood.

Oh, there was screaming. There were pleas to stop. There was the highly dramatic yet baby-esque "Ouchie! That's a really big ouchie!" cry followed by blubbering.

I'm not saying getting stuck with a needle doesn't hurt. But this performance could have earned her an Oscar nod.

We tried to distract her (look at all the stickers across the room! which one do you want to pick when we're done?).

We tried to show her how cool it was (look, see the blood going into the tube? that's coming from your body! how neat is that?).

We tried to make her focus on her favorite person (look, Noah wants to know what's wrong with you, and he's smiling to make you feel better!).

Nice try, suckers.

So, as all horrible childhood experiences must, this one came to an end. I'm happy to say she survived and it didn't do any permanent damage to her vocal cords -- which is why she was able to say, for the next two hours, "Mom, my arm still really hurts. I don't think I want to go back to the doctor ever again."

Luckily, I scheduled her 6-year-old checkup already, so we get to go through at least some of this again in July.

Yay.