I took the kids to the doctor’s office for their annual flu
shots last week. As a parent and language enthusiast, I know how important word
choice can be. So I carefully avoided the word “shot” in favor of the more
benign term “vaccination.”
R: “Mom, why are we going to see Dr. N?”
Me: “We’re going to get flu vaccinations so you can stay
healthy.”
R seemed satisfied with this explanation and said nothing more
about it until we reached the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist loudly
announced that if we were there for the flu SHOT clinic, we needed to proceed
to another part of the building. The situation deteriorated from there. R began
screaming that he didn’t want a shot long before we even saw the inside of an
exam room. So I am now holding K under one arm while trying to wrestle 40
pounds of terrified preschooler through the waiting room door with the other.
(The Crocodile Hunter has nothing on me).
When the nurse called our names, the hysteria started anew.
Originally, I had planned for R to go first because I knew that once he heard
his sister’s reaction to the “vaccination,” he would put the pieces together.
However, all mothers know that even the best-laid plans often fail when dealing
with actual children. R squeezed himself into the corner between the wall and
the exam table and refused to come out. Five years and two children ago, I
probably could have squeezed through the crack to get him, but no dice now. I
could tell the nurse was becoming impatient, and she suggested that we start
with K. I reluctantly agreed.
K, who is (blessedly) at an age where she has no idea what’s
going on, looked trustingly into my eyes as I held her sweaty little hands in
mine. She didn’t even flinch when the nurse poked her. A good five seconds
passed before an expression of utter betrayal crossed her face. Then the
wailing began.
R, who was observing from the crack between table and wall,
empathetically began to wail along with his sister. I fished K’s pacifier out
of my pocket, gave it to her, and she was fine. R, on the other hand continued
voicing his displeasure loudly. I tried reasoning (“You want to stay healthy
for soccer this winter, don’t you?”), bribing (“As soon as we’re done, we can
get ice cream, AND you can have extra cherries.”), and begging, (“Come on
buddy. There are other people waiting”). Finally, I was able to grab ahold of
one flailing wrist and maneuver him out into the open. It took two nurses (and one
to hold K), and me bear-hugging his upper body to get him onto the exam table.
After he was finished, he sobbed while he chose a sucker
from the treat box, all the way through the waiting room where other
anxious-looking children took one look at him and clung more tightly to their
parents, down the front steps of the doctor’s office and into the backseat of
the car. He also shouted “Don’t-ever-let-them-do-that-to-me-again-mom!” between
sobs before exhausting himself. Next year, it’s dad’s turn.
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R had been anxiously awaiting the arrival of his Halloween
costume, which I ordered the week before. Everyday after school, he would hurry
out of the car and run down the driveway to check the mailbox, only to be met
with disappointment when all it contained were envelopes. (Four-year-olds are
the reason the US Postal Service will never be completely out of business). It
finally arrived on Wednesday, and he immediately stripped down to his Batman
skivvies to try it on. After R had sufficiently admired himself, he took the
costume off and ran around the house shirtless.
I was fixing dinner in the kitchen when I looked up and
noticed that K had pulled herself up and walked along the exterior wall of the
living room, wandering into the kitchen doorway where her brother was standing.
As I watched out of the corner of my eye, I saw K extend her tiny finger and
place it squarely in R’s belly button. I expected him to jump back, knocking
her down with his sudden movement. But, he stood statue-still and allowed her
to examine his naval for several seconds. Once her curiosity was satisfied, K
turned and crawled back into the living room, and R continued chucking foam
balls across the dining room. It's the simple things in life I guess.
