My children, mainly John know of my many doctors.

And I hate it.

On Monday I had to go to the doctor for just a ‘regular’ appointment and John was full of questions.

“Are we going to the doctor with the doggy?” That is my psychiatrist.

“Are we going to the doctor with the sand box?” That’s my therapist.

“The doctor with the puzzles and books?” My regular doctor.

“Is it my doctor, with the sticks?” His pediatrician, and he gets to play with the tongue depressors while we wait for the doctor to come to our room.

That’s four doctors, not counting my OB/GYN, and he doesn’t remember that one only because it’s been a year since ‘we’ went.

Four.

That’s way too many.

I hate that he has had to come with me and play while I’ve cried and bared my secrets. I’ve thanked God that he’s been too young and pre-occupied thus far to understand what has been going on.

I hate that he’s been in the room as I’ve discussed medicine I don’t want to take, medicine with names that have made me cry, while he’s played happily with Diego dolls and a docile dog.

I know that he’s hit the age where this is not longer possible. This summer when I go to my appointments I’ll need a sitter for all three of the kids. Thankfully John will be in kindergarten in the fall so I won’t have to plan my appointments around him or take him with me any more.

But up until now he’s gone with me.

And I’m done.