Other Fall Rites of Passage
Block Island Ferry in 2014 looking at me with suspicion.
The Army was very generous in the twenty-four years I was in the Reserve. They gave me a lot of opportunities but the two they provided in in abundance were the chance to have someone stick a needle or multiple needles in my arms, and to stand in line. You can imagine that last night, as my Long Suffering Wife and I stood in line with our two sons, at the flu/COVID shot clinic at the local middle school, I felt quite at home.
There were a number of families taking advantage of our well spent tax dollars. There were lots of kids who were, given what the event was, remarkably well behaved. There were a few kids who were upset, crying but I can’t blame them. Who likes standing in line? Who likes being stabbed in the arm?
It was a nice community affair. I saw a couple of parents I recognized from things like school over the years or Cub Scouts. I saw the arborist who had recently cut down a couple of our trees. My neighbor was there with his kids.
Eventually our turn came. We shuffled up and sat down at the cafeteria table, magically transformed for my youngest son, into something straight out of the Spanish Inquisition. Why didn’t other countries have Inquisitions? Maybe no one would really be appropriately scared of the Bahamian Inquisition?
My youngest, doesn’t like shots. He doesn’t like doctors or dentists or pretty much anything health care related. But he REALLY hates shots. He hates having a needle stabbed into his arm. Not surprisingly he tends to fight like a badger that managed to snort Angel Dust. The very nice nurse did her best. LSW and I did our best, and eventually he got his flu spray in the nose. Kiddie waterboarding, if you ask him. Then the main event the COVID shot, in the arm.
For LSW and I, it went as well as it could. We barely got hit, spit on or scratched. He’s a fighter when cornered. The nurse was spared and eventually the needle went into the arm and the payload was delivered. Then it was over and my son was upset, tears and snot. He has Downe Syndrome and doesn’t understand why every year we take him somewhere so some stranger can stab him in the arm. Sometimes, multiple times.
He’s a good kid though. He bounces back fairly quickly. Lots of hugs and kisses help. French fries from a particular AU Arched chain are the currency of forgiveness. He’ll spend the next week walking around with his arm held stiffly at his side. He’ll act like he was wounded at “the front” as my grandmother who survived war torn Ukraine would say.
In a few days, he’ll forget to act like his arm was bayonetted in the trenches at Verdun or some such place. We’ll almost forget how much it sucks to see your child upset like that. The next time he gets French Fries, he’ll offer his mother and me one or two because he understands the currency of forgiveness.