Weighed ... 37 pounds.

Measured ... 42 inches.

Growth.

A paper robe with a plastic ribbon to tie it closed was waiting for her in the exam room.

I was wondering when it would happen. Annabel has officially reached the age of modesty though modesty has just barely reached her.

On our way to her sixth-year physical, she had asked me if the doctor was female. She was relieved when I said she was. She wasn't relieved when I answered "I don't know" to her next question: "Will there be shots?"

There were shots. Two. She doesn't handle shots well. It's always a force-her-into-it situation. 'We hurt you to help you' isn't an easy concept to grasp at any age. Parsing necessary hurts will be our tiresome chore for a lifetime. Another concept we struggle to understand.

She admitted afterward that the shot really wasn't that bad after all. Over and done with in two blinks. That's how these things work. Regardless, the pain is a part of us now. Something we take and share wherever we go. A battle scar we admire and detest. "All day long I was saying 'ow, ow, ow,' mommy. I told everyone I think that doctor switched my shots. Gave me bad ones."

"It wasn't that bad. They gave you two stickers and let you keep the robe," I tell her, wishing a paper dress could actually be a comfort.