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Nonetheless, I wanted a prescription for more drugs for him (one can never have too many drugs for a child who is allergic to THE PHYSICAL WORLD), and they gently but firmly insisted he be seen by his actual doctor first. Whatever. Like I hadn't fully consulted Google.

On the appointed day, really near to the appointed hour, the boys and I obediently trooped in to see the doctor. Max and Raphael settled in on the floor while Tre hopped up on the paper-covered table to wait. We didn't have to wait long before the doctor, a petite woman dressed in a gorgeous suit, swept in the door. "OOOOOHH, look at you ALL!" she cried. The boys and I glanced at each other. She seemed delighted enough to see us to be a grandmother. She leaned over and hugged Max and Raphael. "Look at what a GOOD JOB you are doing, waiting for your brother!" Then it was my turn for a hug. "And it is SO GOOD to see you!" And then Tre got his hug. He shot me a look over her shoulder and it was one of those moments when I could clearly read his thought bubble: Mom, she is hugging me. WHY is she hugging me? No one said I had to touch the doctor. I smiled and shrugged back, while Doctor Hugs-A-Lot trumpeted her delight at seeing Tre.

Then, with everyone properly greeted, she sat down and opened Tre's chart. She asked how he was feeling (fine), if he needed his inhaler often (maybe twice in the last year), and if he'd had any problems with his shots (not unless you consider an aversion to being stuck with multiple needles a problem). "Well, you are doing GREAT! I am SO PROUD OF YOU!" she told Tre. Then she lowered the chart and looked at him very seriously. "You should be GLAD that you are a late bloomer. I hope you are HAPPY about that. It gives you more time to GROW, you know. When you develop later, you GROW LONGER. So DON'T WORRY, OKAY?"

"Um...okay?" Tre answered. He looked at me, and again I could read the thought bubble: Did she just call me a short late bloomer? Why, yes son, she did. But she is SO PROUD OF YOU.

Just when I was thinking this visit was a total waste of co-pay, she finally asked if I had any questions. As a matter of fact, I did. The reason we started allergy shots was that Tre had an allergic reaction to a bee sting. Being an actual bee keeper, this was something of a downer for him, considering that subsequent allergic reactions to stings carry a higher and higher risk of DEATH. 

"Now that he's been getting these shots for over a year, what are the chances that he'd have a fatal reaction to a bee sting?" Is what I wanted to know. 

Apparently, his odds have improved considerably. Rather than the 60 to 80% chance of a fatal reaction a year ago, he was down to a 15 to 20% chance. Of dying. I thought about this for a minute, just pondering how weird allergies are. I mean, if you had spent a year having expensive and painful treatments done to your...I dunno...car. (I don't know what a painful treatment to your car would be. WORK with me.) And then after your year of investment and hardship, your mechanic told you that your risk of the engine exploding and killing you on the drive home was down to 15%...well. I'm not sure that would be encouraging news. But in an allergist's office you say OH YAY and PLEASE, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER FOUR YEARS? It is...odd.

But then, as we were all swept into one more enthusiastic good bye hug, I realized that ODD? Was par for the course in here.

Incidentally, Tre got stung the very following weekend. He came trotting inside, laughing in that special I-am-so-not-scared way that means he's slightly freaked. I dosed him up with an adult dose of Benedryl and told him firmly that he was going to be fine. Then I watched him, fingering the Epi-Pen in my pocket, holding my breath, and and praying that my words wouldn't come back and bite me like that time when he had an ear infection and I told him confidently that he wouldn't throw up. And then he did, and he has never never never let me forget that. This time, however, I was right. He was fine. I suppose that office is onto something after all.