Both of my boys have birthdays this month and you know what that means … no, no, not high fructose corn syrup overload, dreaded sleepovers where no actual sleep occurs, and outlandish gift requests that force me to redefine the word ‘delusional’ … although all of that is soooooo much fun, too. (There’s nothing like a kid’s birthday – and subsequent party – to make you rethink every decision you’ve ever made throughout the course of your entire life.)
No. It’s time for their annual check-ups … which, let’s face it, is all about the shots.
I’ve obviously had years of this … many in which I felt like flying them all to a third world country, exposing them to polio to make them fully understand why we’re doing this, and then saying I told you so.
“Mommy, I can’t walk.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have fought me on those shots. Sucks to be you.”
I’m going to share with you a story from about 4 years ago … when the kids were 8, 7, and 4 … the absolute PERFECT ages to get stuck with a needle.
I have MANY, MANY times taken the three kids BY MYSELF to attempt these
shitshows appointments but for some reason this particular year I got the Hubs to accompany me. All I can think is that, at that time, with an 8, 7, and 4 year old, he wasn’t getting much (if you know what I mean) and must have been desperate. Sadly, I’m sure he got nothing that night anyway.
So, at any rate, our main parental dilemma (out of 326 that day) was the question of whether or not to tell them where we were going. Of course, most will say, “be honest with your children”, but the secretly smart, savvy ones (in other words, my people) say, “don’t even think about telling them until the needle is being pulled out of the drawer”. I had always leaned towards being honest (my attempts at being the perfect mother are a source of non-stop ridicule and hilarity in our home today) and had paid dearly for it … chasing them around the house like the deranged cats they are to try to get them into the car, attempting to remain calm with all hell breaking loose, and drinking heavily that night.
We decided to go a different route this particular year. We said nothing. Just got them all in the car and started driving. I mean, yes, they were asking where we were going, but we stayed silent. Unfortunately, our oldest has an outrageous IQ (damn smart kids) and figured it out. But, hey!, at least they were already in the car. Of course the minute she figured it out, she loudly broadcast it throughout the car so the other two could be privy to the information while, at the top of her lungs, wailing, “why would you do this to me?!”. The youngest, Guy, just started a high pitched screaming that deafened all of us for a good 5 minutes. AD, thankfully, remained calm. He merely asked if I would hold his hand. At least I think that’s what he said. I had to read his lips.
When we arrived, I put the Hubs in charge of Munch. Two dramatic females forced to interact is the equivalent of 2000 dramatic females forced to interact … I wasn’t touching that with a 10 foot pole. So I decided I’d deal with Guy, who I carried football style into the building. We fell 3 times. On the ground. In the lobby of the doctor’s office. Three times. His flailing body no match for my abnormally, hideously weak arms.
Once all 5 of us were ushered into a room (and by ‘ushered’ I mean security took us in) and we passed all the looks of horror from other patients, the secretaries, and even the janitor … mouths hanging open with disgust and terror … we attempted to rationalize with the kids. I know, I know … we were still stupid then. Ten seconds in we gave up. Mainly because, while trying to talk to Munch, Guy had flattened himself on the ground by the door and was screaming under the crack, “Somebody let me out of here! Help me!!!! SOMEBODY LET ME OUT OF HERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRE!”.
We got the older two done (a story in and of itself, but I’m not writing a novel here, people … although if you’ve made it this far …) and moved on to Guy. He was held down by four of us. FOUR. And after screaming through the entire 2 second ordeal, while the nurses joyfully skipped out of the room, Guy yelled out, “Goodbye, SUCKERS!!!” … as if to say he really didn’t have any issues getting shots and that little dramatic show was all for fun … and how hysterical that they had all fallen for it … suckers.
I, naturally, shrank in mortification and yelled, “We didn’t teach him that word!!!”
Because, ya know, I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m a bad mom.
While this ecard has nothing to do with this post, I found it hysterical and much funnier than a giant needle. P.S. Do not google “giant needle”.