I think I need therapy.
I just took my son for his 4-year checkup, which included his three required immunization shots that nobody had the courtesy to warn me about. I, naively, thought it was just one, so you can imagine my surprise (and his) when the nurse informed us it would be three — which actually turned into four! As I reluctantly held my son down — simultaneously trying to convince him it was for his own good — he suddenly morphed into Hercules! He fervently grabbed the syringe right out of the young nurse’s hand after she administered the first torpedo into his left thigh. (My son shrieked so loud, stretching his rubber-band mouth so wide, I swear I saw remnants of his breakfast still digesting!) He wound up with a four-inch scratch on his leg, not an ounce of vaccine under his skin and blood dripping everywhere. He sobbed uncontrollably as the rattled nurse dutifully prepared his next two shots. Scratch that (no pun intended) — make that three more shots, since that one didn’t even count! Poor thing. Five Band-aids later, he limped to our SUV, his hazel eyes still pooling with tears. Stuffing two Thomas the Train stickers — handed to him by the guilt-ridden receptionist — apathetically in his pocket, he tearfully asked me to pick him up on the way. I scooped him up so fast you’d think I’d sprouted wings. Trying to prove I was still his loving protector, I softly kissed his moistened cheek and whispered repeatedly that I was sorry. My own tears soon melted into his. “That sure hurted me,” he whimpered in my ear. Mommy sighed. “That sure hurted me too.”
Anyone know a good therapist?