Let me get the legal stuff out of the way. This is not a complaint, a grievance, or the opening move in a class-action suit against every parent who has ever looked at my gray hair and silently done the math. I have no lawyer on retainer. I just have reading glasses on retainer, because I keep losing them on top of my head.
This is simply a field report from the far end of a pediatric career, where the view is lovely, the knees are loud, and the questions have changed.
The Question That Flipped
When I started practice, parents would walk into the exam room, look at me, and ask, “So, how long have you been doing this?” It was a fair question. I looked like I’d been issued my stethoscope that morning along with a learner’s permit. Parents wanted to know whether I’d ever seen an ear infection outside a textbook, or whether their baby was my first real patient. They studied my face for signs of competence the way you check a teenage valet for signs of a driver’s license.
Now they walk in, look at me, and ask, “So, how much longer are you going to be doing this?” Same people, different question. In between, I went from “Is he old enough to know what he’s doing?” to “Is he going to be around long enough to keep doing it?” Apparently there was a sweet spot in the middle where I was experienced but not yet vintage. I think it lasted about a Tuesday afternoon in 2009. I missed it. I was charting.
Why My Age Actually Matters
Here’s the uncomfortable truth, and I say this with love for my colleagues across medicine: in most specialties, nobody cares how old you are. Your orthopedist? You need him for three weeks until your foot stops hurting. He could be 92 and powered by prune juice and stubbornness, and as long as he outlasts your plantar fasciitis, you’re happy. Your dermatologist? Three months to clear your acne, maybe a mole check once a year. That’s a short-term lease, not a marriage. Your ER doctor? You’ll know her for four hours, and you’ll spend three and a half of them in the waiting room watching a man with a fishhook in his eyebrow.
Pediatrics is different. When you pick a pediatrician, you’re not booking a repair. You’re signing up for an 18-year plus relationship. Diaper rash to driver’s ed. First fever to first heartbreak. “Is this poop normal?” to “Please don’t tell my mom I asked you that.” We’re there for the colic, the croup, the broken arm from the trampoline you swore was safe, the ADHD evaluation, the sports physical, and the conversation about vaping your 15 year-old really doesn’t want to have.
So when a new parent brings in a 5 day-old and looks at me, they’re doing honest math. That baby will need a doctor until about 2044. They’re wondering whether I’ll be seeing their kid through high school graduation or watching it from a recliner in Boca Raton. I get it. Truly. I do that math too, usually at 2 a.m. when the answering service calls about a rash.
The Perks of Being a Vintage Model
Before anyone starts a GoFundMe for my retirement, let me point out that being an older pediatrician has real advantages. I’ve seen it all. Not “seen it in a lecture.” Seen it, smelled it, been sneezed on by it. When your toddler shoves a bead up his nose, I’m not panicking. I’ve pulled out beads, peas, crayons, a Lego helmet, and one memorable pistachio shell. I have a mental museum of things children put in their faces.
I’ve also outlived several parenting trends. I remember when we told everyone to put babies to sleep on their stomachs. I remember when peanuts were the devil, before we learned that introducing them early actually helps prevent allergy. I’ve watched parenting fads come and go like low-rise jeans. So when you show me a viral video claiming some magic gadget fixes teething, I’m not shocked. I’m just tired, the way a lifeguard is tired of watching people ignore the “No Diving” sign.
And I’m very hard to scare. New doctors sometimes order every test known to science because they’re afraid of missing something. Older doctors have learned which kids are sick and which are just loudly, theatrically unhappy. Experience is mostly the ability to say “That’s a virus, give it a week” with confidence, and be right.
The full disclosure, since my lawyer (who doesn’t exist) would want it. Getting down on the floor to examine a crawling toddler used to be easy. Now it’s a two-part process: getting down and the far more dramatic getting back up. I make a noise that frightens the baby more than the shot does. I’ve started calling kids by their parents’ names. Not because I’m confused, but because I literally took care of their parents. Nothing makes you feel ancient like a mom saying, “You gave me my kindergarten shots,” while handing you her baby for his. That’s not a patient panel. That’s a family tree.
And the slang. I once told a teenager his strep test was “negative,” and he said, “That’s bussin’.” I nodded like I understood. I didn’t. I still don’t. I’ve been afraid to ask.
So, How Much Longer?
Back to the question. How much longer am I going to do this? The honest answer: as long as I’m still good at it, still enjoy it, and can still get up off the floor without a winch. The day I can’t keep up with the medicine, I’ll be the first to hand your kid off to someone younger, sharper, and with better knees. That’s not ageism. That’s just good pediatrics.Until then, I’ll keep doing what older pediatricians do best: calming panicked parents, spotting the truly sick kid in a room full of sniffles, and remembering exactly what your child looked like at his two-week checkup when he’s standing in my office at 17, taller than me, asking whether I’m “still doing this.”
Yes, kid. I’m still doing this. Now sit on the paper and say “ahh.” Some things never get old. Unlike me.