Saturday, March 10, 2012
Monday I took both boys to their well visits with our new pediatrician. It was all fairly uneventful until we got to Davis's vaccinations. I hadn't warned him he would be getting any and had casually brushed off the pre-visit inquiries with vague we'll-have-to-see's despite the fact that I knew he was due for his last round of shots for a while. The last time he got a shot, his flu vaccination back in the fall, he took it like a wounded animal. He was far more upset about the fact that I would let this happen to him than he was about the stick itself. Given that history, I was reluctant to work him up prior to the actual shots, opting instead to keep the atmosphere light and fun.
But it was inevitable, and sadly he had to get three. He never cries outright, like his older brother would. Instead he makes these heart-rending animal noises in his throat that make him sound like an injured puppy. Afterwards, as I rocked him and cooed to him, I told him about how brave he was as a baby in Aberdeen when he would get his "sticks", as they call them there. He would hardly cry and settle right down afterwards. They love to hear these stories from the past, and I love to tell them.