When Cara was first born, I knew the shot schedule better than I knew my daily schedule…probably because I didn’t have a daily schedule but you get what I’m trying to say. Possible side effects were researched. A bastardized cost-benefit analysis was conducted and I went into every appointment educated and confident in my decisions for Cara.
And then Ollie was born.
It’s not that I became lax but that rabid, hypervigilant first time mom thing waned and I reached “Zen Mom.”
Yesterday was Cara’s four year checkup and Ollie’s two year; I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone and schedule them together. Our doc was late and our 10:45 appointment turned into more like 11:30 or something. By the time the pediatrician got to us, the kids and Tucker were about to spontaneously combust.
Shots were one of the first topics of conversation.
Which of course sent Cara into orbit.
And Cara wasn’t the only one who had to get shots; Ollie had a date with the needle as well.
The worst part of it all was having to hold her down while the nurse gave Cara the two shots. That was hell. Her pretty blue eyes filled with tears. Blech. I’m pretty sure it was so hard on both of us because she’s finally “with it” enough to know what’s going on and she knew what a shot was and knew it was going to hurt.
Now the kid’s on the couch with a glazed look on her face that could be due to the shots or the ugliness that is my favorite fuzzy blanket. Both?
You’d think I would be enjoying this quiet time but now she’s asleep and she’s twitching and she’s got her baby doll in a death grip and she just looks so damn pathetic and sick and there’s no way I could enjoy this.
-  Not really but that would make one hell of a t-shirt, right? ↩