On Friday I take the boys for shots. The sharp kind, not the fun kind.
It’s been so long that no one remembers what to expect. Apparently it’s been eons since those needles were put into the little dough-balls we called thighs. At lunchtime James admonishes me for trying to prep the boys by mentioning it the day before. Apparently it created a lot of visible Nate anxiety.
We arrive and there are some new COVID protocols, but honestly, I prefer waiting outside in the sun versus in the germy little kid waiting room. Nate’s scheduled for one flu shot, and Jake’s scheduled for… wait for it… four. Unfortunately there is a buffet of middle school shots I seem to have blocked out from my sixth grade memory bank.
Nate goes first. The nurse tells him to count Orcas on the aquarium wallpaper border and “What? You’re done?” Nate hardly even notices.
Jake’s up. He has to have two shots in each arm. He powers through with nary a peep. The nurse is sincerely impressed. The warriors leave with their various multi-colored cartoon bandaids.
I work for the rest of the afternoon and when I come in at the end of the day, Jake has set himself up on the couch with a blanket and a movie. He’s not feeling great. I’m struck by his independent, self-soothing set-up. We feed him his fave spaghetti for dinner. Jake’s a T-Rex. He can no longer extend his arms. The soreness has really set in. Before bed he confesses he’s lost half his dinner to the porcelain gods. Poor kid doesn’t have a fever but the shots send him willingly to bed.
Saturday morning they both wake-up almost good as new, and vaccinated for almost all things except the one thing we all really care about… the Corona. Nate shows me evidence embedded in the little crease of one of his fingers where it appears he has a permanent graphite tattoo and declares, “I’ve poked myself harder with a pencil!”
I don’t doubt it.