"It's for your own good!"

BB with short-back-and-sides. Nice and neat and spruced up for Christmas, just the way his Nana wants him! And yes, he is indeed sitting IN the food cupboard. I think his dream would be to actually turn into an item of food and eat himself…

Yesterday afternoon, it was time for BB’s regular medical check-up, with the added bonus of a double-vaccination.

If you imagine what your own reaction might be if, say, you stubbed your big toe on a doorframe, and then someone came over and deliberately bashed the aforementioned toe with a big hammer… you will be some way to appreciating BB’s attitude to these medical visits. Absolute, sheer, ear-splitting horror and indignation. It’s always a very fraught experience for all concerned, not least the poor doctor (though I’m sure he’s seen worse).

The scrunched up, indignant face starts as soon as we’re on the stairs that lead to the waiting area (BB, not the doctor). He sometimes gets distracted by the toys on offer if we have to wait a few minutes, but as soon as he hears Doc’s footsteps, all hell breaks loose.
His eyes disappear into two watery slits, his face turns purple and his tonsils become very visible (this is sometimes an advantage, when Doc wants to check his throat).
I am thus trying to jiggle BB into a state of only mild hysteria whilst making polite chit-chat with Doc, who always manages to stroke my arm, touch my shoulder and slip in at least five compliments at every visit (I think he rather likes me).
As the visit progresses, I start to perspire under the pressure of it all.

Yesterday’s visit followed this well-trodden path. By the time the needle had to go in, BB was practically convulsing. I clasped his little body to my chest while Doc plunged the needle into his back with the precision and cheeriness of an experienced grouse hunter.
I rubbed his back, made loud, soothing sounds and walked briskly around the surgery four times – as instructed – in a plea to make BB forget the terrible thing that had just happened.

Then, fully clothed again, he sat on my knee, hiccupping dolefully while I signed the cheque and Doc launched into a pleasant discussion about Britain’s refusal to join the Euro (he seems to enjoy discussions based on British-French cultural differences, during which I am expected to laugh ruefully and say something to the effect of “ah yes, Britain is a strange country!” For the sake of peace, I always oblige).

On the way home, BB, still watery-eyed and snuffly, kept shooting me hurt looks.
For him, these visits are inexplicably cruel torture sessions.
For me, they are black spots on the otherwise sunny path of our mother-son Wednesdays.

One day at least, BB will be able to understand my imploring “it’s for your own good, I promise!”. And then he’ll smile stoically, be brave and hold in the tears. Won’t he?