Spilt Milk

Natalie spent her last morning of track-out at her alma mater, Sunrise Preschool, telling this year's new senior class all about kindergarten.


Apparently Eve did something, and someone can smell it.
At least she had the decency to do it off-camera. That's manners.
And TGIF! Thank Goodness It's Flu Shot day. Because seriously, bringing a 3-, 4-, and 5-year-old to a doctor's appointment and then bringing into the room six different injections during naptime is just what I needed to satisfy my masochistic tendencies.
You know, I thought about bringing the leftover Emla cream to the appointment. I really did. But I was too busy refolding all the clothes thrown down the stairs, cleaning up remnants of a Play-Dough fight, cursing the Legos I stepped on in my barefeet, and crying over spilt milk. (And seriously, whoever said not to cry over it wasn't having to clean it up to the tune of a half gallon a day.)
So here I am, at the pediatrician's, with three children who have all behaved quite horribly, waiting for the nurse to bring in the shots. We are those people. You know, the ones you hear with such clarity and volume through the walls and wonder why they aren't anesthetizing those poor children before they amputate all of their limbs.
I've heard countless mothers tell their offspring, "I hope you have one and they grow up to be just like you!" I attribute this hex to the good eating habits of my daughters. However, it comes back to bite me in the butt with a vengence usually reserved for Clint Eastwood. And I am convinced they have filed all of their teeth into canines, just to leave extra-impressive bite marks in my rear.
I am a diabetic. I am not afraid of needles. But, up until I was diagnosed, I was Natalie. I would hide under chairs and exam tables and sinks and scream and cry and negotiate. Yes, I'll take the flu! I'll stay in bed all day long and only eat soup and throw up and not see any of my friends and won't go outside and play!
But it's hard to have sympathy when you have three red-faced, wet-faced kids, each clawing their way onto a piece of your body, digging their little fingers into your skin in order to secure a death grip that can only be broken by a hacksaw. It's even harder when they have started a butthead co-op during the first two hours of your trip to the doctor. It's 4 p.m., and I am officially broken. Mission accomplished, Team Butthead.
But Team Mommy strikes back. Mommy Dearest will pin you down with an unexpected strength that is found from deep within, past the cobwebs and the nachos, deep into the horsepower reserve. She will not lie to you and tell you it won't hurt, because it will. Because you are screaming so loud that the vein in your neck looks like it might pop at any instant and you are being physically restrained by an adult who has been pushed to the edge. Because nothing, not even an ice cream sundae, could not feel terrible in the state you are in.
So maybe next time you won't spill your milk, and I might just remember to bring the magic cream. I know, I know. Call me Aesop.