I have to be honest, I hate shots. I’ve always hated them. I remember (and my mom loooooves telling these stories) trying to convince the nurses that I’d take medicine for two months if they didn’t give me a shot. My negotiating skills were obviously as poor as my decision to clinch up as tight as I possibly could in fear of a shot that ultimately hurt way worse, because I decided to fight it like they were trying to inject me with the ebola virus. There are also stories about it taking a number of nurses to hold me down one time. I’m choosing to believe that one didn’t happen. To this day I still list shots right up there with snakes as my biggest fears.
With that being said, it was no surprise that at least one of my children would have to pay me back for the punishment and embarrassment I put my mom through at the dr.’s office. That child is Hudson. Elle had come home sick a few days before with a high fever and complaining of a sore throat. A trip to the doctor a few days later revealed a raging case of strep throat that required a shot to the bum. I wasn’t there for that visit, but apparently Elle, like all doctor visits, handled it like a champ. When Hudson came home from school the next day with the same symptoms, Elle and I picked her up and headed to the doctor’s office.
The trip over there, strangely familiar, included her trying to get me to swear she wasn’t going to get a shot and to reassure her that she could just take medicine. The fact that Elle had already gotten a shot the day before pretty much sealed her fate and she knew it. We made it into the office and the girls walked around greeting all the lovely ladies at the front desk, like they always do. We made our way to the waiting room where Huds continued to try to convince me that she didn’t need a shot. We made it into the room, where Elle decided that she wasn’t sticking around for this, and headed back to the waiting room to watch Dora. After a temp check and a throat swab, which I’m convinced they hate worse than an actual shot, it was on to the results.
When Ms. Sherri came back in, Huds knew her fate was sealed. The pleading turned to crying. The crying turned to “jello kid” where she threw herself on the floor. She agreed to pull down her own pants but gripped her bum so tight there was no way to get a needle near her. As she went to clean the area, the real tantrum started. Kicking, screaming, pleading…and none of it pretty. I tried to calm her down but there was no fixing this. We finally said she could face me…sitting on my lap and hugging me tight. The needle went in to her tiny concrete clinched bottom and I know it had to hurt. It hurt like all the dozens of shots I’d had as a kid that hurt by my own doing.
It was of course over before she knew it and all probably not worth the fuss in hindsight, but when you’re in that situation, the only thing you can do is freak out. As we went to leave, Elle came back to the room to check on her sis, but also I think to make sure we were leaving without her getting another shot as well. Self defense, but smart. Hudson, ever so dramatic, limped out of the room holding her hip and postured that into a few extra stickers from the wonderful doctors and nurses that for some reason think the girls are so cute. After that little outburst, I’m not so sure that’s true any more. They now look at her the same way those poor nurses looked at me when I was a kid…or more so they look at the parents with a bit of sympathy for having to go through that craziness.
Either way…sorry mom.