Master P and I were at yet another doctor's appointment to figure out MP's mystery sniffles, this time at the pediatric allergist. All was going along as it usually does, one routine medical question blah blah blah after another, when a nurse suddenly appeared, tiny needles in hand. Before I could shout, "Wait, are you about to stick tiny needles into my son, and if so, where's my martini?" the nurse quickly administered the allergy test, ie, poked little sticks into the back of wee precious this:
|My apologies for the iPhone photo, but we've had e-n-u-f ENOUGH today without worrying about photographic integrity.|
On the other (manicured) hand, it's wonderful in ways I can't describe to be the one your babe looks to when he's hurting. I'm happy to try and put on the brave face to comfort him, but on days like today where the need to do so takes me by surprise, there's a summoning of some hidden maternal thingy I wasn't aware of. There's a primal element to all this no baby book can adequately describe.
It was all over shortly, thank Neiman Marcus, and with the happy result of no obvious allergies. Less happily, we're still on the search for the mystery sniffles cause.
I also caught a glimpse of the future today - I have a good 18 years or so ahead of trying to look brave and comforting, when I'm feeling anything but. Of choking back my own fury and fear when I see someone else hurting my little one, when that pain brings about some greater good. Some harlot will inevitably break his heart one day, for example, and someone will have to hide the tiny needles (and the vodka) when that dark day comes.
Suggestions for brave Mom face attire and/or mystery sniffles solutions are welcome in the comments; clearly my J Crew'ed best is not up to the task.