Kyle's last visit to the doctor was very traumatic. I've always been quite diligent (that's putting it mildly) with his check-ups, and I thought all of his shots were up to date. But alas, I was wrong. When we arrived here at Edwards, we were informed that he needed 5 shots to ready him for kindergarten. Plus, his flu shot. We're talking 6 separate shots. No combinations. No short-cuts.
I looked at the immunizations nurse and laughed. "You think my child's going to sit there through six separate pokes? You obviously don't know him." It was decided that we would get three, and come back later for the others.
Well, I should've just done it all at once, because convincing him to return for the remainder was an absolute joke. We bribed and begged. The only thing that worked was allowing him to watch Dad get his latest round. But it still wasn't pretty.
So after we kissed and hugged, paid him off with a chocolate shake, and promised him there would be no more shots for the next 95 years, I thought we were finished. No more trauma, no more tears.
Once again, I was wrong. It came time for Marie's 2-month shots. I told Kyle it was Marie's turn, thinking he would be elated that it wasn't him. But no, wrong again. The fact that they were going to poke his sister sent him into a frenzy.
"But mom, are they going to hurt her?
"Why does she have to get shots, too?"
And the best one:
"Mom, I feel so bad for her - she doesn't even know what's coming!"
So true, son. So true.
The anxiety got so bad that I finally had to sneak her into the doctor while he was school. And I think it worked, because when he arrived home from school today and saw those two little bandaids on her chubby little legs, there wasn't a ruckus at all.
Instead, he kissed those chubby legs and said, "Oh, poor baby," and was on his way.
