doctor office nov 09Here’s a hard-learned tip for other parents: Do not enroll your children in martial arts before they get their final immunization shots.

“Gee, wonder how I found that out?” I muse as I hold my bruised ribs.

Yesterday the boys had their final round of immunizations before registering for kindergarten. Their next round of shots won’t come until age eleven, and my ribs are very glad for that . . . as are my ears and my arms and my shins and my back. Every one of those body parts received crushing blows or kicks or shrieks of terror yesterday in the nurses clinic as I and three other grown women pinned my three five-year-olds down—one at a time—to give them three shots and a tb test. Gads, what a horrible affair that was. I don’t even know where to begin explaining—with the boy who shouted, “THAT was the LAST ONE!” after each poke, perhaps? Or with the boy who sobbed nonstop from the moment we climbed out of the van in the parking lot? Or perhaps with the boy who wedged himself in the armchair and declared through sobs and tears, “I locked myself in! You WON’T get me out!” (He was pretty darn close to right.) If I wasn’t wholly convinced that going away and coming back for shots on another day would not yield a better scenario, I would’ve gone away and come back for shots on another day. But I was wholly convinced, and I did stay, and that had me chasing down escapees who made it as far as the hall, handing out boxes of Oreos and stickers and promising movies and trips to Disneyland and Legoland and lands that don’t actually exist, and unwedging “locked” kids from armchairs by planting my feet on both sides of the chair, wrapping my arms around the child, and throwing myself backward. Honestly, yesterday’s immunizations will go down with my sons as worse trauma than having a pit bull chase them into their own garage. This time, their mother was the attacker.

I have to say, the extreme freak-out caught me a bit by surprise, as lame as that sounds now. I mean, really, I had three five-year-olds being told they’d get three shots each, what did I expect, a library hush and a “Thank you, Mom, may I have another?” after each stick? The thing is, other shots yielded scenes very close to that relaxed scenario. For instance, before we went to England, the boys sat calmly for their round of immunization shots. And a couple of months ago they barely flinched for their flu shots, deciding that the promised lollipops and ice cream were quite worth a momentary prick. But yesterday? Sweet. Fancy. Moses.

After the horrid affair, I took the boys home—stopping off at Blockbuster for the promised movie—and ushered them into Daddy’s arms. He kissed them and hugged them and promised to go with them the next time they need to see the doctor, just like he did when they got chlorine “burns” in November. Me? I fled. Oh, I kissed each boy, too, of course, and told them each how much I loved them, but then I sped away at top speed in search of a much less hostile environment: jui-jitsu class. At least there I can tap out when I’m caught in a choke hold.

Indeed, Mommy needs to brush up on her grappling skills, and I’ve got six years to do it. Unfortunately, that means my boys will be six years older… and six years bigger. Six years stronger. Oy. I hope my martial-arts-trained sons get over this trauma before they turn eleven. If not, I’m going to that immunization appointment in full body armor.

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