I’m told that my wee self was quite the horror at doctor’s office.
“It took four of us to hold you down for a penicillin shot when you had strep,” my mother has noted more than once, usually after I’ve bemoaned the E-man’s antics upon learning he’s about to be vaccinated.
There also was a Frye-family legendary ER visit that involved the use of a straitjacket as doctors stitched up my forehead. In my defense, I was maybe 3 or 4 at the time.
It seems fitting then, that one of my children sees the doctor as some evil, demented authority figure who is determined to inflict pain and suffering upon the little people.
Yesterday, I accidentally let slip that the E-man would be getting a shot this morning. He didn’t hear me. His older sister did.
“Do NOT tell the E-man about tomorrow,” I instructed her. “He’ll just worry about it all night. It’s better if I tell him in the morning, on the way.”
Two hours later, a small hand flung the living room door open. And there stood the E-man, blankie in one hand, a giant T. Rex in the other.
“I know that I’m getting a shot tomorrow,” he announced in a quivering voice.
“Tootie!” I hollered.
“Yes, Mommy?” she inquired sweetly.
“Did you tell your brother about his appointment?”
“No, Mommy. He guessed it,” Tootie said in an irritatingly demure manner.
I gave her The Look of Parental Skepticism.
“All I said was that I knew what he was getting tomorrow. And then he said, ‘A shot.’ So see? I didn’t tell him. He guessed it.”
With all that extra time to fret, the E-man had worked himself into quite a state by the time we entered an exam room today.
He sobbed as the nurse pored over his records. He pressed himself into a corner. He pleaded to leave.
When the nurse finally brandished the needle, I had to peel the E-man off the wall. And then I had to peel him off of me.
A simple prick and we were done. Even so, the E-man brooded the whole way home.
Lest you think I exaggerate my son’s fear of needles, I offer Exhibit A: