Warning: There are definitely swears in this post.
I am in a real shit of a mood this week and it’s only Monday. That doesn’t bode well for the rest of the poor gits in my family. There are a number of contributing factors to this shittiness: my ability to keep the house even slightly hygienic was thrown into grim conjecture when I mopped the floors today and found some blue icing in the grout from the Boetman’s birthday. That was seven weeks ago. My birthday is coming up and for the first time in YEARS I can’t throw off the feeling that I am actually ageing… and today the Boetman had his four year-old injections. All of that with maybe a sprinkling of PMS just to really up the chocolate intake.
I obviously got over giving a toss about the floor which is evidenced in the fact that, realistically, I haven’t mopped it for around two months. The PMS thing is also on the #zerofucks pile since I’m dealing with that on a fairly regular basis. But the injections? And the old bit?? Now that I’m giving some fucks to.
Six and a half years ago I sat uncomfortably in a medical practice with my first baby. I say uncomfortable because at six weeks, my vagina the train wreck hidden underneath my very flowy skirt was still a disaster zone with police tape saying DO NOT CROSS and I was doing more ‘wincing’ than sitting. Plus I was still full of crazy post-partum hormones and truly, when that well meaning nurse sat us down for about 20 minutes of non-needle chit chat I was pretty close to tearing her head off. Finally she got around to immunising Sussie and for the first time in six weeks I wasn’t crying because I was latching my baby onto the open wounds on my breasts. I mean I was. It still REALLY hurt, but I sat in that chair surrounded by a white curtain and sobbed because that little bundle of beautiful was in pain. She was now protected from some truly disgusting diseases, but at this very moment for a short while, she was in pain and that sucked.
A few years later and my youngest child is about to see his last set of immunisation needles for a long time. Long enough that next time, sitting on my lap won’t be an option. Long enough that he probably won’t even seek my arms out for comfort. Long enough that he’ll be able to spell AND understand what immunisation means and why it’s an essential part of our health care plan.
Anyway, today we sat down for those four-year-old needles and I hugged him on my lap, ready for the tears and the little head to cuddle into my chest. Except he didn’t. No flinching, no tears, no gasp, no nothing. I even questioned the Nurse as to whether she’d done it properly: the Boetman was completely nonplussed. But he most definitely had been jabbed and my use as Chief Comforter was not required today: the only tears in this examination room were my own.
“Well done! You won’t have to do that for a very long time- not until you’re a young man!” said the nurse. Luckily we were in a medical facility which made getting that knife out of my chest a bit easier.
Feeling at best redundant, we went out for a chocolate milk whereupon he complained about his arm hurting. I gave him a cuddle, grasping at the last afternoon tendrils of sunlight from his babydays. And he felt better: so did I.
A few minutes later he spilled the majority of his chocolate milk all over the table, the chair and himself. Again, no tears, just a resigned “Can we go home now Mama?”
“Okay mate, let’s go.”
We held hands all the way to the car like we always do and I felt a little sad. Happy, but sad and pissed off: he’s growing up and there’s nothing I can do about it except clean up the spills and hold his hand for as long as he’ll let me.
Have you had a redundant mother moment? And were you elated or deflated?
Buy this book I wrote all about how to not want to kill your kids next time you go on a road/plane trip with them. It’s actually quite sensible despite everything that goes on here at this blog.