When I took Alex to his three-year well-child appointment, I expected the usual: Alex would refuse to talk to the doctor. He would probably cry as the doctor attempted to look in his ears, mouth, eyes. The doctor and I would have a hard time talking, as Alex would insist that I not talk to anyone but his small self.
As per usual, I was surprised. Every question that the doctor asked Alex was answered. When the doctor asked Alex to open his mouth, he did. Alex walked up to the doctor and initiated conversations about our plans for the day (playground), what he had for breakfast (waffles, three of them), and, the new favorite topic, farting.
“Wanna hear something?” Alex asked the doctor. He then pretended to fart, sticking his little hip out to the side and looking over his shoulder, laughing at his own humor.
When the doctor was finished checking him out and asking questions, he told me that the nurse would be in shortly with the vaccinations.
The nurse came in and gave Alex his two shots. One in each arm. When she left, Alex cried. And cried and cried.
“Mommy, it huwts. She put two big holes in my awms! Look!”
I tried to tell him that it would be okay. That the “holes” were covered by super! cool! bandaids! and that he would feel better soon. I told him that I knew it hurt, and that it was scary, but that it was all over and the nurse was just trying to make sure he didn’t get sick in the future.
“I don’t wike her. I don’t wike nurses. Nurses are bad. Dey are mean.”
I guess I shouldn’t tell Alex that one day I had to give a baby three shots, and that I will have to be that mean nurse over and over in the future.
Pretty much, I’m bad and mean in Alex’s eyes. Good thing I’ll never have to be his nurse.