A Visit to the Midwife

When Spawn was about 18 months old, I was already a few months pregnant with Bunny. He was a busy, busy child, and very entertaining in a toddler way. I was going to a nurse midwife in a nice, respectable practice with an OB/Gyn for my pregnancy. One day I had an appointment after lunchtime, and I had just finished feeding Spawn. I wiped him down and cleaned his high chair and optimistically gave him a coloring book and some washable markers to play with while I rinsed dishes and made a quick trip to the bathroom.

When I came back, I expected to see the coloring book all covered with scribbles. Instead, I found Spawn’s face and head covered with scribbles, all in lizard green. He looked like a little blond, blue-eyed iguana. I grabbed a dishrag and started wiping, which is when I found out that washable markers aren’t. Or at least, they don’t wash off toddlers very well. After several minutes of scrubbing, using mild soap, using dish soap, and rinsing and rubbing, he looked a little less like a lizard but still not entirely normal – more like he had some strange disease that made all his blood vessels stand out in stark relief against his pale skin, all over his head and precious face.

I was out of time. I had to get moving, or I’d be late for my appointment. So, I loaded Spawn into his car seat and headed off to the midwife. On the way there, he threw his shoes at me, sang songs, told me he wanted soda in a cup, and generally had himself a big time. By the time we got there, time was really short, and I stuffed his shoes back on him, hoisted him under one arm and scampered in for my appointment. The midwife was seldom late with appointments, and I really didn’t want to miss mine.

I let the front desk know I was there and started to put Spawn down when I heard a huge gasp from the receptionist. “What?” I looked up, startled.

“What HAPPENED to him?” she asked, horrified.

“Oh, I let him play with markers which were supposed to be washable, and I haven’t had time to clean him off completely.” I replied.

“No,” she said, “not that. It says ‘666’ on his head!” and she pointed at the top of his head, wispily covered in pale blond hair.

I looked down at Spawn. Sure enough, clear as day, in bright green marker, he had managed to inadvertently draw “666” on the top of his head along with other circular marks. I was at a loss. I stood there for a couple of seconds with my mouth gaping, then mustered up my maternal social skills and said, “Well, that explains A LOT,” and went and sat down with my head in my hands, watching my Spawn of the devil play with blocks and drool.

I’m pretty sure it’s gone by now, but I’m kind of afraid to ask.