Check-ups

When Max and Ben were 5 years old I took them for their annual check-up with the pediatrician. They knew they were getting shots and blood tests and seemed quite brave about it. I was relieved, because in prior years I had my hands full with mass hysteria and Max yelling, "I don't want a weasels shot!"

Both boys seemed so courageous, as they undressed to their undies and made jokes with the doctor and nurse. Even through the exam they were as cool as cucumbers. Then shot-time came and all hell broke loose. They both started screaming and crying bloody murder at the top of their lungs. I guessed that the parents and children in the other exam rooms couldn't help but hear. I did the only thing I could think of and broke into hysterical laughter. The next thing I knew, Ben had gotten himself so upset he needed to be rushed to the bathroom to pee. As we ran down the hall, I was greeted by giggling parents and a howling office staff. I commented that things were going quite well, as Ben began to pee his pants. When we got back to the exam room, I found Max hiding under a chair in a fetal position while the pediatrician guarded the door. I grabbed him and restrained him while the doctor gave him the first shot. In the midst of it, he stopped his flailing and admitted that it didn't hurt at all. Ben was unconvinced. Before I could release Max from the head-lock, I watched in horror as his brother ran out of the room and down the hall in his undies. A chase ensued. Luckily, I work out and was able to tackle him just as he was turning the doorknob of the very full waiting room. I carried him back to the exam room in a football hold, while doctors and small children were laughing uncontrollably.

Needless to say, they both lived through the rest of the shots and bloodtests. The doctor and I had some good chuckles and then went back to her office for some intravenous valium. I tried to convince her to let me administer their shots next year, but she was too damn ethical.