The Only One My Daughter Fears (Or, Does Our Pediatrician Have a Star-Covered Robe He's Not Telling Us About?)

My daughter loves people. If you've ever seen her, chances are, she's happy to see you. She'll let you pick her up, she'll smile, she'll laugh at all your jokes and she'll give you kisses when it's time to leave. Not only is she sugar and spice, but yes, everything nice is thrown in. There are only two people she fears. The first is not just one person, but a people group, and that is blond-haired boys her age. She fears them because, a few weeks ago, a blond-haired boy, born the same week she was born, came and visited. When introduced, my daughter attempted a friendly greeting. With a smile on his face, the blond-haired boy raised a metal toy car above her head and, with the focused speed of a lumberjack, clocked her cross-eyed. Understandably, she avoided him the rest of the day and now treats all blond-haired boys with suspicion. As her father, I am making it my duty to encourage and expand this suspicion, so that it applies to all boys and so that it lasts well into adulthood.

The second person she fears is our pediatrician. We visited him the other day. My daughter had a minor stomach issue, but, as with all of my daughter's minor issues, this one set off that same nightmare my wife and I have every week. You know, the nightmare all parents have, the nightmare that ends with all my daughter's minor issues become the subject of a Lifetime Original Movie. So, to escape our worst fear, we took our daughter to visit her worst fear.

Our pediatrician is a superb pediatrician. I am aware of his diagnostics saving at least one life, and all the ratings and local parental gossip are highly complementary. Our experience is good - he is another example of a man excelling and taking a proper joy in his profession. But our daughter, who always enjoys playing with other sick kids in the waiting room (though keeping a skeptical distance from blond boys), shrieks like that girl is Psycho when he walks in and doesn't stop until she's safely in her stroller three blocks away. This doesn't phase our pediatrician. He goes about his business with a stoic smile, prodding my daughter's belly (and taking a few kicks in the process) while speaking to my wife an indecipherable Swabian dialect. His impeccable bedside manner is friendly and funny.

I suspect the reason he scares my daughter so much isn't the danger of shots (she had most of hers in America already, and though she's due for another soon, she hasn't had one here yet), but his appearance. He looks like he went to Med School at Hogwarts. He has a long, thick black beard, like a neat bird's nest hanging from his face. His large eyes and long, thin nose complete the picture. I really, really want to see him in a blue robe covered in white stars and gold moons.

We left that day, and my daughter's screams subsided into suspicious sniffles. She was fine, he told us. Yes, perhaps. Or perhaps he simply slipped the right potion into her screaming mouth when we weren't looking.