Last week, Mrs Pickwick happened to be on the phone with the receptionist for the family doctor. If you don’t have a family doctor with a receptionist who periodically calls you to ask if the children would like to be registered to win free bicycles, how Sweet’s latest malady is coming along, and just generally to chat, I highly recommend you find one. Left to her own devices, Mrs P would never remember to schedule yearly well-child visits. However, on the phone declining any more wheeled contrivances for the decidedly healthy and active blessings, she suddenly remembered that they needed the aforementioned check-ups. All of them. All at once, naturally, that would be so convenient.

This week, Mrs Pickwick remembered that she no longer technically has a car large enough to convey all the blessings anywhere all at once. Small, who is quite Tall now, had just spent hours scrubbing out the giant Pickwick SUV in preparation to sell it, as they really hardly ever go anywhere all at once, and having two small cars is just so much more efficient. Until you need to put six people in one. Maybe one of those free bicycles would have come in handy after all. Sighing, and remembering this is one reason she doesn’t usually schedule appointments for everyone all at once, Mrs P piled the blessings into the nearly-for-sale-car, secretly rejoicing as Tall lectured all the smaller Pickwicks about keeping their feet off the seats, dropping trash anywhere at all, and the general level of unacceptable stickiness.

Upon arriving at the doctor’s office en masse, and immediately taking over more than half the waiting room, Mrs P remembered this was another reason she never schedules appointments all at once.

The Pickwicks endured the interrogation process with great fortitude, and somehow Mrs Pickwick managed to smile uncomfortably and defend herself as best she could while the children happily confessed to all sorts of sins she long suspected but had never confirmed. No one flosses, Feisty has not even heard of vegetables, Busy never goes to bed ever, and everyone watches at least seven hours of television everyday. The little Man about the place doesn’t get any exercise at all and Mrs Pickwick serves soda every afternoon.

The poor nurse was trying to track five different names and records, with miscellaneous siblings adding information, correcting, turning each other in with possibly too much glee if there was any minor omission about general health and hygiene, and also passionately discussing the plot line of the story about ninjas headed to Europe to get married that they were communally drawing all over the exam table paper.

There was a minor pause of worry as Sweet was asked if she had any concerns about her vision. She answered after a little consideration, “Yes, I can’t really see well..” and trailed off melancholically as both the nurse and Mrs P tried to hear her over the chaos. This was news to Mrs P, and she tried not to immediately fill in the rest of the story with Sweet’s tragic loss of sight by age 11.

“…when I’m underwater.”

Feisty hopped on to the table for her turn and the nurse said, “Now, let’s see, you are..Feisty?” To which the charming little ninja replied, “I am not.” She shook her head through several other names to the nurse’s increasing desperation before Mrs P managed to break in and explain she was Feisty, extremely so, and rather particular about the pronunciation. The nurse adjusted her vowel shape and continued, “Ok then, FEISTY what might you like to be when you grow up?”

“Well. Definitely not a doctor.”

The nurse looked rather harried for some reason by the time she had catalogued all the Pickwicks and marked them off as Pretty Darn Healthy.

The Pickwicks bustled out of the waiting room, clutching their prize stickers and fruit snacks, and triumphantly waving all eight feet of their epic saga exam table paper behind them. The receptionist said she’d send along the appointment records later, there was really no need at all to come in again before next year.