The Swimmy had to go to the pediatrician yesterday for her 4 year check up and, of course, her shots. Husband and I have wisely figured out that we do not inform The Swimmy of this until right before we are pulling up to the doctor’s building (which, with superhero kid powers, she can spot from 10 miles away). Any mention of having to go There is typically met with panicked looks, eyes filled with tears and the inevitable, “I don’t want any shots!”
Actually, she did fine with the typical developmental assessment of What is this letter? Can you hop on one foot? What do you like to play with? blah, blah, blah.
Then, she had to sit… On The Table.
On The Table immediately means poking, prodding and the eventually stabbing and it was at this point that she went straight to DEFCON 1. Husband even had to play “Mean Daddy” and physically restrain her (always a pleasure) while the TWO nurses stuck her three times in 15 seconds. You would have thought her skin was being peeled off to hear her scream. But, we were finally done.
As I was the only one in the room not involved in Swimmy Restraint, she determined I was the only person who could hold her as she cried and leaked out of every part of her face. 40 scratchy tissues later she was still crying and moaning because apparently she also didn’t like the color or pattern of the 3 band-aids that were chosen for her, the texture of the walls, and oh my G-d I hate everything!
As we walked up to the check out counter to finish the paperwork we were met with the faces of other mothers giving me that empathetic I-know-how-you-feel-look while their children had that Holy-shit-what’s-about-to-happen-to-ME?!-look.
While waiting for Husband to finish paying at the counter and still trying to convince The Swimmy that we were, in fact, leaving, there was an adorably blonde little girl who couldn’t have been more than 2 years old and toddling around near her mother. Dressed in her finest “going to the doctor” clothes to show off in the waiting room, she had her hair done up in a ribbon bow, the latest Ralph Lauren plaid shorts and ruffled ankle socks on her little wobbly feet.
Having to witness this Swimmy meltdown was apparently too disturbing to her little psyche and she toddled over to us and patted The Swimmy on her foot as if to say, “Don’t cry. It will be all better soon, my little friend.” Her mother, of course, beamed and said (a bit too loudly for my taste), “Oh, Sarah, you are such a sweet little girl! How wonderful of you to help her feel better.”
With a mixture of astonishment and curiosity The Swimmy looked at this little girl and then slowly turned to me and said, “Please tell her to stop touching me.” And then returned to crying. I, of course, started laughing. ‘Cause that’s the kind of parent I AM!