I had an odd dream last night.
I was standing on a long metal catwalk suspended in the belly of a spaceship, and Darth Vader was approaching me with a syringe sporting a shiny, menacing needle.
When I awoke, I realized that Ava was up and needed the services of her saline drops and the bulbous booger sucker. I guess that explained Darth Vader. Come to think of it, he did sound a little soupy.
And the appointment on our calendar explains his weapon of choice. Today, Ava goes to her pediatrician to receive the shots she missed out on a few weeks ago when she was admitted to Children's for a incisional hernia surgery. I knew when I went the first time that she was in too much agony to even consider giving her the immunizations that day; this time, there's no holding back.
Like most parents who find themselves standing at this milestone, I'd rather stick Darth's needle in my own eyeball than to watch her be a baby pincushion again. I know, though, that these early shots are one of those necessary evils inflicted during childhood from which one quickly recovers and eventually forgets. Thank God for giving infants the memory of earthworms.
On the other hand, Mommies and Daddies are very unlikely to forget days like today. I'm a little nervous about experiencing a Vietnam flashback to her previous hospitalizations.... During her first go-round, Ava Leigh had already had so many sticks at one point that they nearly ran out of locations to place her IV. I keep reminding myself in a mental voice that sounds like Mr. Rogers that such a problem Will Not Occur Today. This is a completely different color of a situation.
This is why I'm trying in my head to walk myself through how things SHOULD go. My baby girl will cry her little tongue-curling wail and claim a terribly broken heart, I might shoot a well-meaning nurse an undeserved dirty look, and I will rub her little back and talk to her in a low voice, telling her how brave she is and how this singular moment entitles her to a childhood of unlimited kitten adoptions. Then I might barf. And then she'll take some sweet grape Tylenol and a bottle, and we'll return home where Daddy and I will take turns warming her against the unseasonably cool drafts in the house and singing her Gene Kelley songs.
Before this is all over, I might need a stiff shot of milk, too. Even normal parenthood things like this can just rip your heart out and stomp that sucker flat.
"I'll see your three shots, and I'll raise you five calicoes."
cute
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