“Do you think you’ll need help holding her down?” I reassure the nurse I have it under control, not realizing she’s asking a rhetorical question. Ever since she watched The Sound of Music, my daughter Mary has been an avid performer. But because Laura and I were so amused by Mary’s flair for the dramatic, we forgot to tell her that in some situations, less is more.
A perfect example is this flu shot appointment, which our little actress is treating like a Stephen King movie audition. With her back against the wall, the four-year-old waves her hands while running in place and screaming. I sit there waiting for the lights to start flickering on and off.
This all started with poor scheduling. I received my flu shot at work and Laura got herself and the boys vaccinated during a checkup while Mary was at preschool. Since Mary is last on deck and we have no other pretext for taking her to the doctor, we face an anxious anticipation problem.
I had hoped to postpone delivering the news until as close to the appointment as possible, but when I tell Laura I will bring Mary in for her “F-L-U S-H-O-T”, Mary immediately responds, “I don’t want a shot!” That is the first time I realize Mary can spell.
To manage Mary’s anxiety, I do what every pushover father would do: promise her a donut if she is “brave” during her shot. And just like that, Mary happily puts on her jacket and heads for the door. “Thank God,” I tell myself, “we’re finally on the same page.” I open our front door and watch Mary sprint away down the sidewalk.
After wrestling Mary into the car, I once again remind her that the donut is contingent on her good behavior. My warning is as effective as a UN sanction. Mary spends the entire ride giving me a riveting anti-vaccination lecture, in which I learn the following: (1) shots are stupid, (2) shots are stupid, and (3) I am a silly princess.
I fill out the flu-shot form in the lobby while Mary plays. My attention turns to phone email until the nurse calls Mary’s name. When I look up, she’s gone. I search frantically and realize she’s hiding near the fish tank in the corner. The fish tank is built into a wall that separates the well-child lobby from the sick-child lobby. I can see Mary giggling with a boy who’s standing on the other side.
“Perfect,” I think, “she’s so mad at me she’s flirting with contagious boys…when I clearly told her she could not start dating until she was 26.”
As we make our way through the hallway, I sense that Mary is trying to express her feelings about the flu vaccine but can’t quite find the words: “No shot! No shot! No shot! No shot!” I respond by whispering in her ear, “Donut, donut, donut, donut…”
Despite this pitiful display of parental discipline, the nurse maintains her friendly demeanor and gives Mary two stickers in the appointment room. But when she brings out the flu-shot kit, the breakdown begins.
While awaiting reinforcement, I beg Mary to calm down. It is like talking to a child in the middle of a night terror. Backup finally arrives.
I grab Mary by the arms and the nurses grab her legs while she unleashes a storm of karate kicks. While pressed down to the table, Mary looks at me like I’m handing her over to the Manson family. The needle goes in, causing her her scream to jump 10 octaves.
It’s all done…the shot that is, not the tantrum. In a pathetic attempt to make humor of the situation, I shout over Mary’s crying to the nurses, “Well, I think that went well, don’t you?!” They exit the room without making eye contact. I’m surprised they do not demand the stickers back.
It’s time for a donut, not because Mary held up her end of the deal, but because I deserve one after that humiliating spectacle. And if there’s anything my hardened Edina upbringing has taught me, it’s that one should always reward oneself.
Of course, I cannot eat a donut in front of my child; that would be cruel. So Mary, enjoy the windfall. Donuts for everyone! We’ll deal with my fatherhood shortfalls some other day.
Trigger Topics 