HAIRSHIRT
Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
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HAIRSHIRT Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery |
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Tuesday, February 24, 2009Needles and Pins
Took the Kid in for his four-month pediatrician appointment yesterday. All is well. The reception/medical records staff were oohing and aahing over him, which is as it should be, 'cause he's fucking cute.
Naturally, he dropped a giant-sized poo bomb in his diaper while we sat in the waiting room. That meant I had to pray for a speedy call to the exam room, which we actually got, so it worked out well. Oddly, he freaked out a little when I laid him down on the exam table to change his diaper. Or not so oddly, I guess, assuming that he has some kind of baby memory of what went down the last time he was put on that crinkly paper. Nor will he look kindly on the exam table the next time he's there, because, once again, crinkly exam table paper meant needles jabbed in his poor little body. He was due for his four month shots and I got stuck with being the parental witness this time. Only fair, since my wife had to see it in December. It wasn't fun, but it was over fairly quickly. Now, I've heard people before say that, when their baby got shots, they had to fight an urge to beat the crap out of the nurse for hurting their baby. Can't say I had that urge. The nurse was just a nice lady doing her job. It's just that that job happens to be causing traumatic pain to little babies. No, I was far too busy feeling bad for my son to worry about slapping the nurse. Oh, how he cried. Loudly and for a good long while. He cried as the first needle went in and he cried as the second and third went in. He cried while the nurse applied bandages and he cried when I got him dressed again. I held him and hugged him and kissed him, but he went right on crying, occasionally giving looks along the lines of, "Your comfort means shit, Dad." Poor li'l fella. He's aces today, of course. Needle trauma is intense, but short-lived.
Comments:
Oh, that poor little guy. It is really hard to watch.
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We still tease The Dancer (age 17) about how she would wail the minute we put her down on the crinkly white paper. I don't think she wails anymore, but I can't be sure. Now I wait in the waiting room while she goes in. Criminy. Where did the time go?
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