My kids got these today after their flu shots. I thought that they were kind of funny, even little faint nods to the Junior Ranger badges/patches. The kids were not amused.
Flu shots. Do they make anybody else sick with a faint, vibrating panic? After once reading about a sad incidence with a kid and a flu shot I questioned our friend who's a doctor about it and he said in that pragmatic bored way that makes all of us non-doctors kind of hate doctors, "Yes, some children will die from a flu shot. We know this. You still should always get flu shots." Well, okay then. That's exactly what going to the doctor is usually like -- not particularly inspiring, but something I do because it seems like it's the best option I've got... This society I live in, and for the most part my own experiences, has/have conditioned me to think that I would be being irresponsible if I did not go to the doctor on time/in time. I have a very close friend who's going down the path less-traveled and doesn't do any shots, and isn't afraid to question conventional/Western medicine. There have been times when her decision has made me squeamish, but this I know: she is an intelligent and thoughtful person, so I trust that she might know something about what's right for her family. I hope that if I haven't been supportive, I have at least been neutral. I'll say that her medical philosophy seems particularly sane as I watch for anaphylaxis, seizures, fevers, etc. post-shot -- the idea of injecting a harmful virus into my kid simply because some dude who went to medical school (and gets paid for giving shots) tells me I should, does in fact seem like the most asinine parental decision ever.
That spectrum: supportive to neutral to myopic/rabid/know-it-all-about-everybody's-business has been on my mind. On Saturday The Girl was invited to a birthday party with the girlies from public school. It was down in SoHo at a bookstore and I had nothing but good feelings going into it (we love the family throwing the party), and then, as I was squeezing our parade through the hipsters with tight pants, and tourists with tight pants, I realized that I would be seeing some parents that I haven't had any contact with yet this year... and I felt... nervous.
The Boy likes nonfiction a great deal. I know that the new Core Crap is all about nonfiction, and I vehemently disagree with it -- but that's a topic for another time. I would like his reading diet to be balanced, and so after dropping The Girl in the party room, I told him that while at the bookstore he could pick out a paperback fiction book of his choice. He didn't want to, and stood staring blankly at the wall of books for 9-13-year olds, looking every inch like a little thug with his back c'd, his arms folded and his baseball cap on sideways (note: baseball cap to cover up the quarter-tube of hair tonic he had decided to use... it had been an interesting morning). I chatted with a friend. A bookstore employee came up and asked him what he was looking for/what he was interested in, so she could help him. He looked panicked. He couldn't form a word. He stammered and rocked and kept looking over at me like: what do you want me to say???
I knew that the panic was a) because he likes to be dramatic and b) because he was confused by her question. Did she really want to know what HE wanted and what HE was interested in? Because if so, that would be a nonfiction book about history or chickens or inventions or the history of inventions having to do with chickens. If the question was what was he supposed to be looking for, well that was different... In that moment, all of my angst about having to deftly maneuver through the, "How's homeschooling?" questions frothed and churned. He was acting just like the cliche-archtype homeschooler: unable to interact, unable to make a decision without Mama coaching him, wide-eyed and panic-stricken to be out in the world, in a word: weird. In my head I was spluttering about like Yosemite Sam. My face surely looked like Violet's mom in the Tim Burton Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when she plasters on the creepy spread-out smile and her crazy eyes are all: get-it-right-or-I-will-disown-you. My freakiness did not help The Boy. The rocking increased; the stammering increased; the eyes got wider.
The moment passed. But once mental spluttering and Violet's-mom-face have kicked in, I'm not one to let moments pass by, so I grabbed the slipping moment by its freaking collar and yanked it back. Have you ever done something that you're not proud of, and because you're ashamed and pissy you then make it way worse? So, I did that. Standing in line I was like, "When people talk to you, can you please answer them?" And with his baseball cap all sassy he was like, "Yeah, whatever." So then I was like, "Because the 'errrrr,' 'hmmm,' 'ugh,' 'derrrr' business is really lame." Who mocks a panicked nine-year old kid? Apparently I do.
How is it that usually I don't give a rip about what people do -- at the most I'm amused or snarky -- but not really influenced, and then all of a sudden I'm back in middle school and the fear of what the other girls think sets me on this trajectory of meanness? Shoot. Being an adult -- making decisions about live virus injections and being all grown up even when embarrassed -- is hard for me, and apparently I am more sensitive about home schooling than I thought. Or at least I was on Saturday.
Today as we wandered about we didn't stand out -- all the public school kids had today off for Veteran's Day. After piano we went to the park with friends.
How nice it feels to be with people who love us -- even if we stammer or splutter. I don't ever feel inclined to prove that we are or are not anything. Standing there thinking about that as our kiddos teased the concussion gods on the concrete slide made the golden day that much more golden.
To their literature/theatre class and then to the flu shots...
After leaving the pediatrician's office the day was about done -- clouds were covering the sun and the temperature had dropped several degrees. Nonetheless, we decided to walk the mile home through the park because it's the route that we used to take home from school on most days. The Girl cried while talking about the shot experience. Both had wanted to go first, and when the doctor came in she settled it by saying that the oldest would go. Judd the Red Chicken, The Eldest splurted a bit of blood and apparently seeing that right before she was poked traumatized her. She didn't really cry in the office, but as we walked along a leaf-littered path she told me how it made her feel and the tears flowed. The Boy was distressed to see his sister so upset (which quite frankly surprised me, usually that seems to be his hourly goal). He said, "I'm sorry. I guess I should have let you go first. It's just that I really wanted to go, too. Next time..."
Believe me, kid, I know what it feels like to be selfish and let my base/scared self dominate my actions. You're right, we just keep moving forward and hope that next time...
