Our little man did well, although he did start to cry just a little bit at one point. Naturally, Tracey blamed me, but then I'm used to that. I am, according to my wife, to blame for all our kids' needle phobias, and to be honest she may have a point (pun intended).
I hate needles. I fear them. I loathe them. I avoid them. So naturally I'm the guy you want calming your child down before a nurse stabs a hole in their arm.
"It only hurts a lot for a little while," is the sort of thing I inadvertently say.
I don't even like attending when my kids get needles, but I know my duty as a parent so I drag my sorry butt along with them and do my best.
When the doctor told Master7 he needed a blood test our boy got pretty upset. All my kids have a greater-than-average fear of the jab. When Master21 was about five and needed a blood test it took five adults to hold him still enough for them to perform the procedure. They still mention this when I go to the clinic. But the doctor telling Master7 he needed a needle wasn't when he cried.
When he was waiting at the clinic for his name to be called, Master7 was very nervous. We'd given him all sorts of pep talks last night and this morning. I even wrote a song for him to sing while they drained him of his life's blood - "I don't wanna be here, I don't wanna be here, I don't wanna be here, I wanna go home." I kept it simple since there won't be much blood left to operate his brain. But sitting in the waiting room wasn't when he cried.
When his name was called we all marched down the hallway, got lost, retraced our steps and eventually found the right room. There was only one hallway and it was only seven meters long, but it seemed like a lifetime. I entered the room last so I was surprised when I noticed Master7 wasn't in front of me. The nurse found him hiding behind 'The Chair'. Still he hadn't shed a tear.
When the nurse put a tourniquet his arm and showed him the garden hose sized tube she would be shoving into his vein fear had definitely widened his eyes and even helped him develop of a nervous tick whereby his legs were involuntarily jerking about, but still he didn't cry. Neither did he, as I was considering, pass out.
When the nurse started filling the five vials, the other nurse, Tracey and I were respectively holding him down, holding his hand and holding my breakfast down. I led him in a few verses of my song, "I don't wanna be here, I wanna go home", but it was more for me than him. Finally, it was all over - the vials were full and the nurse pulled the needle out and applied some cotton wool. And all without a single tear.
"And now it's time to do the other arm," I quipped.
And he bawled.
Seriously, I don't know why Tracey makes me go to these things.
(don't forget to thank our sponsors by clicking their links)