Check up from Hell.

OK, the guys, they are 4. F-O-U-R. That's astonishing to me, and apparently to their pediatrician, who, upon enteirng the exam room for their annual check-up, looked at them, then at me and said "They're 4 already?!" And she seemed to be genuinely amazed in an "I just blinked my eyes and these guys transformed from scrawny infants into big boys" kind of a way. To which I said, "Tell me about it."

Anyway, things started well enough. They noted the mural of a monkey hanging by his tail and I began teasing them about also being monkeys while the nurse took some information. Then I made the mistake of asking why they never hang from their tails. "I don't have a tail. I have a penis," Chas said. "But you don't have a tail or a penis. What do you have?" The nurse is now snickering and I'm changing the subject.

Anyway, Eddie was extraordinarily nervous, so when it came his turn to get examined, I went with him to the table and he sat on my lap. Big mistake. The doctor had no more than looked in his ears and his mouth when Chas slipped and fell head first onto the hard ground. A goose egg and sobs ensued. So the doctor moved over to the bench area to finish Eddie's exam while I comforted Chas. Then of course, she breaks the news that they need immunizations. Four of 'em. Now I'm ready to weep because up until this check-up, I've always brought back up to assist me in this circumstance. But I'm overly optimistic still -- the last few shots Eddie has looked sort of pissed off, but he hasn't even cried.

So while waiting for the nurse to return with the instruments of torture, we talked about how vaccinations would protect them from sickness etc. Chas quickly volunteered to go first.

I held his arms and tried to distract him, but it was no use. He began screaming, tears literally flying from his face. "I don't want to go first! I want Eddie to go first!" Naturally, sensing that he's next, Eddie is also in hysterics. Four shots to Chas' arms later and I give him a quick hug and put him down to sob alone while I grab Eddie, who is fighting as if his life is at stake. I don't blame him. He knows we're bringing the pain. It ends and I'm left to put shirts back on two sobbing little boys. "When will it be over?" Eddie asks through his tears. I tell him it IS over, but he means the lingering pain in his arms. Shots are of varying degrees of painfulness, but as I recall, at least one of these -- the dpt or dip-tet -- is indeed quite painful. And when you are as tense and struggling as hard as they were, anything would hurt like a mother. Of which I felt like a not very capable one having come unprepared with a back-up comforter.

The irony is that Steph ended up staying home to work and could easily have accompanied us, AND my sister Cathy actually got up and started to get ready then decided to take me at my word when I said I could handle it on my own. Sigh.

They're over it. I, however, keep seeing those little arms, pinched up with needles jabbing violently into them while my sons struggled against me, not understanding why I would allow this torture, let alone participate in it. Or maybe I'm being melodramatic. Again. Hmm.