I don’t think anything can truly prepare you for your baby’s first doctor’s appointment.
You’ve just survived childbirth (barely). You’re running on maybe two hours of broken sleep, your body feels like it’s been through a war, and your mind is in a fog so thick you can’t remember the last time you ate a real meal. But none of that matters, because today? Today, you have to pack up your tiny, delicate, brand-new human and take them out into the world—a world filled with germs, loud noises, and people who definitely don’t care that you’re one breath away from losing it completely.
The first doctor’s visit is supposed to be routine. Just a quick check-up, make sure baby is gaining weight, ask a few questions, and be on your way.
At least, that’s what they tell you.
But if you’re anything like me, it’s a complete and total disaster.
The Stress of Just Getting Out the Door
First of all, leaving the house with a newborn is a production.
• The diaper bag – Packed, unpacked, repacked. Do I have enough diapers? Wipes? Extra clothes in case of a blowout? Burp cloths? A bottle? What if she gets hungry? What if she poops the second we walk into the office?
• The car seat – A nightmare. It’s heavy, awkward, and I swear no matter how many times I practice, getting the straps right is a puzzle designed to break me.
• Dressing the baby – Okay, I put her in the cutest little onesie, only for her to immediatelyspit up all over it. Outfit change. Then she has a diaper blowout. Another outfit change. Then she starts crying, and now I’m crying, and suddenly we’re already running late.
By the time we actually get out the door, I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I’m sweating. I’m exhausted. And I haven’t even gotten to the actual stressful part yet.
The Anxiety of the Waiting Room
We finally get to the doctor’s office, and the moment I step inside, my anxiety goes into overdrive.
• Oh my god, this place is covered in germs.
• Why is that kid coughing like that? Should we leave? Is it too late to turn around?
• I should have wiped down the car seat before we left.
• What if my baby gets sick? She’s so tiny. She has no immune system. This was a mistake.
I sit in the waiting room, clutching my baby like I’m guarding a national treasure, trying to shield her from every potential illness floating in the air.
Meanwhile, she starts fussing. I try to rock her in her car seat, but she’s not having it. I pick her up—instantly better. But now I’m stuck standing in the waiting room, bouncing her up and down, while everyone around me stares like they’re waiting for me to lose it completely.
And then comes the paperwork.
Who knew a two-week-old baby needed so much information? I can barely remember my own birthday at this point, let alone her insurance number. I stare at the clipboard, eyes blurring, desperately trying to remember what day it is.
Is it Tuesday? Wednesday? Have I been here before? Have I been awake for 24 hours straight? Probably.
The Actual Appointment: When the Anxiety Peaks
Finally, they call us back. I carry my baby into the tiny exam room, and suddenly, the real panic sets in.
• Is she gaining enough weight?
• What if something is wrong?
• What if they think I’m a bad mom?
The nurse starts asking me questions. Way too many questions.
• “How’s she eating?”
• “How many wet diapers a day?”
• “How’s her sleep?”
I nod like I know what I’m talking about. In reality? I have no idea.
Sleep? What is sleep? The last time I actually slept was before I gave birth. How many diapers? I don’t know. A lot. Is that an answer? Am I failing already?
They weigh her, measure her, poke her, prod her. Every time the doctor examines her tiny little body, my heart is in my throat.
Then the words come. The ones that make my stomach drop.
“She’s a little underweight.”
Panic. Guilt. Fear.
My brain immediately goes into overdrive.
• I’m not feeding her enough.
• I’m doing this wrong.
• She’s not gaining weight because I’m failing as a mother.
The doctor reassures me that it’s nothing to worry about, that newborns fluctuate in weight, that she’s still perfectly healthy. But it doesn’t matter. Because the second I hear anything that isn’t 100% positive, my postpartum brain spirals into a dark, terrifying hole of self-doubt.
And then come the shots.
Nothing prepares you for that first round of vaccines.
The second the needle touches her skin, she screams—that horrible, high-pitched newborn wail that shatters my heart into a million pieces.
I burst into tears. Full-on, sobbing tears.
The nurse looks at me with sympathy. “I know, mama. This part is hard.”
Hard? Hard is an understatement. This feels cruel. This feels like I just let someone hurt my baby, and I will never forgive myself.
Finally Leaving (AKA: The Emotional Breakdown in the Car)
Somehow, we make it through. The appointment is over. My baby is okay. I should feel relieved.
Instead? I’m a wreck.
I get back to the car, strap my baby in, sit in the driver’s seat, and just sob.
The exhaustion, the stress, the anxiety, the overwhelming guilt—I hold it together for as long as I can, and then it all comes crashing down.
It’s just too much.
I feel like a failure. I feel like I’m not doing enough. I feel like I’m not cut out for this.
And then, from the backseat, I hear a little noise. A tiny sigh.
I turn around, and there she is—sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of my meltdown.
And that’s when it hits me.
She doesn’t know I’m doubting myself. She doesn’t care that I’m anxious and exhausted and convinced I’m screwing this up.
To her, I’m just Mom.
The one who feeds her, holds her, keeps her safe. The one she trusts completely.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m doing okay after all.
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