Flu Shot

I can't write much today. I have to conserve my energy for battle. Today my daughter gets a flu shot. Taking her to the doctor is almost like The Eliminator on American Gladiators, but harder. First, there's the treadmill at the beginning. That's where I have to run around the house trying to get her dressed. I'll distract her with the iPod and then sneak her clothes on her. She'll have to pee just as soon as we're about to walk out the door, so I'll have to go sit her on the toilet. If I'm lucky she won't maneuver herself into a weird position where she sprays all over the place (don't ask).

We'll get to the car and she'll throw a fit because the only spot I could find yesterday was in front of the playground. She's gonna think that's where we're going and when I open the car door all hell will break loose. I'll try to get her in the car without it looking like I'm kidnapping a child from said playground. We'll drive downtown and I'll play "Where's the Parking Space." I don't have any quarters, so I have to hope I find one of the meters that takes credit cards.

I'll take her out of the car and let her walk to the office that way she'll be slightly tired when the main event comes. But before the main event we'll stop at every manhole cover so that she can spell out "S-E-W-E-R" and "W-A-T-E-R" and of course "P-E-P-C-O." She yells these letters out to me like I'm slow. If I pass one she looks so sad at the missed opportunity to bring literacy to my savage race.

We'll get to the building, ascend the elevator and go into the office. They'll do the usual, "Wow she's gotten so big!" I'll sign in, while she begins to establish herself as the alpha-toddler in the waiting room. I'll try to keep her from walking up to baby carriers and trying to remove the faces of the babies inside. Other parents will allow their kids to cough and sneeze into the air prompting me to activate the imaginary forcefield that I choose to believe exists all the way in the corner where I'll move my daughter to. Then the nurse will come out.

She'll say my daughter's name instead of mine, as if she's actually going to respond. My daughter will follow me down the hall, while slowly piecing together the fragments of her goldfish memory from yesteryear. Around the time we get to the waiting room, her brain's loading screen will be at 75%. Since it's just a flu shot, they won't have me strip her down to her pull-up, so she won't quite know what's going on. That will soon change.

The nurse will return with a tray, a glove and the back-up nurse that my daughter now gets everytime it's shot-time ever since she went Incredible Hulk on us a year ago. Once my daughter sees the other nurse in scrubs, she'll have a Fight Club/Usual Suspects moment where, thanks to a ton of flashbacks, she'll realize exactly what's going on. She will scream at a decibel level that rivals the most expensive commercial grade surround sound systems.

The nurse will say, "Okay, you take the arms and hold them by her sides, the other nurse will take her legs and I will inject the shot." My daughter's pupils will dilate, her biceps will flex, and her body will levitate off the table. One of them will say, "I forgot how strong she is." They'll stick in the shot, my daughter will turn into Gozer and take the form of a Tazmanian Devil and will roll off the table.

"All done!" will be the battlecry for the two nurses to retreat to the safety of somewhere else and my daughter will look up at me from behind watery globes as if to say, "I trusted you with my life." Less than 30 seconds later, she will act as if nothing happened and ask to play with the wind chimes hanging from the ceiling. We will leave and pass several concerned and confused children in the waiting room who are all clinching their parents in terror as they try to figure out what happened in the other room. My daughter will say, "Goodbye!" to the girls at the front desk as if nothing happened.

I will suffer arm, shoulder and various pains in my lower abdominal from holding her down. So yeah...no post today.