Hot Mess and The Pediatricians

When I was 8, I remember 4 people having to hold me down for a shot in my ass. So it should come to no surprise that I gave birth to a child that acts the same way I did when I was young when it comes to injections. Karmas a bitch and I’m sure this is the universe’s way of getting back at me for the hell I put my mom through. I had my 2 son’s shots scheduled for 10:15 a.m. today. For those of you just joining my blog, I have an 8 year old-C and an 11 year old-P.

“C, on a scale of 1 to 10, how bad are these going to hurt?” P, the 11-year-old asked C on the way to the Pediatrician. C was not scared at the fact he was getting shots today. C was like “let’s do this bitch, mom. I’m ready!” Moving from side to side, like an NBA basketball player ready to win. He’s got this!

P on the other hand, don’t got this. At 11, he was a nervous wreck and has been since the day he found out this appointment was happening. I felt extremely bad for him yet secretly laughing inside because he was whimpering while his younger brother was like, “hold my beer, I got this.”

Once at the doctor’s office I thought I was free of filling out paperwork as I had checked one of my sons in online, filling out all sorts of info. Given that I am a nice parent and let both reside under the same roof, all the info is the same, so I thought I was done.

‘Are they going to make me fill out the exact same f’ing info I just filled out?’ I thought as I looked at the receptionist suspiciously. She was grabbing for this monstrosity of a tablet and started to type a code, then she handed it to me. I looked at her, back at the tablet then back at her and began my whine fest.

“All the info is the same. Are you sure I have to fill this out again?”

The answer was yes and I accepted my fate and went to sit with my son’s in one of 2 waiting areas. The tablet looked like a tablet for kids. It had a bright green bumper all around, in case I wanted to drop it from the Empire State Building. I started to type the info with my fingers but the screen wasn’t “taking” it. I began to press harder until it looked like I was assaulting the screen.

“This thing won’t take my info!” I said out loud. I was becoming more and more frustrated. The TV was above our heads blaring out some high-pitched, cartoon voice while a little girl and her toddler brother were running back and forth, screaming at a decibel that could shatter glass. It didn’t help that Aunt Flo was coming to visit any day now. I was pissed and walked back to the front desk window.

“I don’t know if the screen is really dirty but this stupid think won’t take my info.”

The young blonde looked at me awkwardly, smiled and said, “It works a lot better if you pull the stylus out from the side.”

I felt so stupid. That would have been helpful info for her co-worker to divulge 5 minutes ago. I walked back over to my seat.

“March! March! Get over here right now!” A hayseed woman barked after one of her screaming, nightmare children.

‘Good job Lolita,’ I thought. ‘It only took you 15 minutes to realize your kids were on the other side of the office, torturing us with their ear-piercing screeches.’

“I’m sorry, did she just call her kid March?” I leaned over and whispered to my oldest. This took his mind off the shots for a few seconds as he smiled at my question.

“Come here November!” He barked jokingly.

“Daylight Savings Time! You get over here right now!” I said, wagging my finger, pretending to yell at an imaginary kid. By now, C had joined in, noticing our laughs. Once he caught the joke, he added his own good one.

“Winter solstice, quit screaming!”

We were laughing till the door opened and our names were called. Suddenly my oldest became sober again and began to tear up. As we walked to the room, it was divulged that the youngest, the braver of the 2, actually didn’t need shots today. I could tell he was relieved.

We were led to an examining room by a very tall, chunky nurse, wearing a leg boot. After questions were asked, height, weight and blood pressure taken, she returned to the room with a tray and a finger pricker.

“Bye!” My oldest yelled, hopping off the table, heading for the door.

“No! Get back here! Those don’t even hurt.” I tried to comfort him.

“Yes they do!” He retorted.

After we went back and forth several times, the nurse realized she was going to have to take a different approach. Despite only pricking babies on the toe, she agreed to prick my 11-year-old son on the toe since apparently that wasn’t as painful. Please note this was a first for her and this age.

Knock, knock….

“Is everything all right in here? Do you need anything?” A frumpy nurse in scrubs asked as she popped her head into our room. Apparently, my son’s whining and the longer than normal time it was taking for this procedure, was causing concern.

‘Balls?’ I wanted to say, ‘do you have spare balls lying around?’ Knowing this was insensitive and rude, I decided to keep my mouth shut.

After 2 pricks on the big toe, P announced he was being a baby. The shots were a whole other story. He was borderline hyperventilating once Nurse J returned with a new tray of cotton balls, wipes and 2 syringes. P was in full-blown stall mode.

“Can I just go to the bathroom?” He wailed.

“No, let’s do this!” I said as I pulled him back down on the examining table, holding his arms down. I was done and wanted this to be over. “Now don’t move because she’ll miss and stick me!” I said, genuinely worried this could happen.

She rubbed his arm with alcohol and faster than I’ve ever seen someone do it, boom, boom, DONE!

P stopped sobbing and in a normal but shaky voice asked, “wait, that’s it? Oh my God. That’s it?” He began to laugh a bit of a crazy laugh over the whole thing, knowing he had over reacted.

So the next time he has to get a shot is apparently next year. He had the option to start this round of shots today but given his state of mind, it wasn’t necessary. The shot was for….ready for this? To prevent genital warts. Um, that won’t be necessary anytime soon. So gross!