From #1 son. He has figured how to make his shoes shine. Mind you, he's in AFROTC, and what you or I might call a shine, is not likely to pass inspection there.
This left me thinking.
He was about five. It was summer. It was time for a bunch of vaccinations. Three or four.
We went to the clinic. I had promised him any form of candy he wanted after the shots.
He had no idea what was coming. I did. I wrecked an office by turning over a floor to ceiling bookcase when it was my turn.
I remember that better than yesterday.
We walked in together. I did some paperwork. He sat on my lap wearing his safari clothes. I held him tightly.
The nurse put the shots in his thighs in under five seconds.
Bandaids applied, we left. Four eyes streaming tears without restraint. His head buried deeply in my shoulder. His chest, my chest, both heaving in the trauma.
Sobbing would be the understatement. We were fused. Might the nurses date from us?
What a sight we must have made to the other parents and children.
I have no apologies. I never will. Trauma is trauma, even when it's for the right thing.
In time, we can both function again. We drive to the grocery store in silence to fetch whatever he wants that I can afford.
And I do mean whatever, as I reminded him upon entry.
We enter. I follow him up and down the aisles, wondering why we're not focusing on the candy.
The boy is reviewing his options. Completely.
Finally, we settle in on a spot. He points. I lift him. He reaches and takes a box of sugar cubes.
Yeah, I got the look when we returned home. I didn't care. I knew I never would. I would do it all over again, but I hope I never do.
-- text tapped from a virtual keyboard. You found misspellings? Imagine that. Get over it.