I took Hannah to the doctor this week for a blood blister on the bottom of her foot. It was hurting her pretty badly and she could barely walk.
That first whiff of rubbing alcohol told me what was about to happen. I think Hannah knew it, too, although the word ‘lance’ might not have been in her vocabulary yet.
(I guarantee you, it is now.)
The second the doctor pulled out a needle things went south.
One nurse grabbed Hannah’s shoulders, another nurse grabbed her foot. I had the dubious pleasure of holding her leg straight while the doctor dove in with the needle. I leaned all my weight against her, holding her in place.
Hannah screamed in my ear, hot tears running down her face and onto my arm. I stroked her hair back from her red and sweaty forehead with my free hand, ineffectually whispering “shh, shh” as if that somehow made things better.
The writer part of my brain chose this moment to step back and say, Remember this. You can use this.
My mom-brain growled at the writer, Goddammit, now?! You want to do this NOW?!
The writer looked at the mother and shrugged, all wide eyed innocence. What? This is good shit.
So here are some thoughts the writer gathered from the longest two minutes of my week.
We left the doctor’s office and climbed into the car. On the way home Hannah was calm.
I, however, was exhausted.
Hannah said, “My foot feels funny, Mom.”
I stiffened. “Does it hurt?”
“No. But it feels like there’s a hole in it.”
She flipped the radio station and started singing along to Taylor Swift’s Bad Blood.
That’s when my own reaction caught up with me. Involuntary tears filled my eyes. I gripped the steering wheel and took deep breaths, keeping my eyes on the cars ahead of me.
Hannah looked over at me. “Are you gonna cry?” she asked, puzzled.
“Maybe,” I said, not blinking.
“Never mind,” I said, swiping one hand at my eyes. “You’ll understand when you have kids.”
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