I was in the library getting Henry weighed yesterday (yes, really) (also, YES, thirteen lbs!) when I remembered that today was jabs day. And this one was nasty: two in one leg and one in the other. The left leg drew the short straw. Not sure why. It’s not like he plays football or anything.
In accordance with some law of inevitability, he is always cheery as chips the morning of jabs day.
And I never have the heart to tell him. My darling boy, you’re going to be squealing like a stuck pig in a few hours, and I can’t do anything about it.
Well, off we went to the doctor’s surgery, and sat in the waiting room with all the other mothers and babies. At least two people made the ‘Oh, he’s smiling now, but you just wait…’ joke. I need to find some more original material.
We’d been waiting about ten minutes when I realised a) he had a very, very full nappy; b) I’d be taking his trousers off and bending his legs up towards his chest quite soon; and c) the immunization nurse didn’t deserve baby pee in the eye, regardless of what she was doing to him. We did a covert nappy swap on the waiting room floor, smooth as anything, and I felt all commando and only slightly worried about what might’ve been on the floor before us.
I make myself watch and not cry. He tends to be braver when I am. And, I tell myself, I’m a mother; I need to get used to for your own good, even when it involves needles and diseases.
Once it was all over, we came home and initiated our standard jabs day procedure, entitled Batten Down Ye Hatches. We drop everything and go cuddle in bed for the afternoon. Sometimes I think it’s better to make a strategic retreat, and fighting off mini-meningitis has to be one of those occasions.
He’s a bit young to fix things with shepherd’s pie. Though really, all we needed was Daddy.