So we went. My daughter was 6 mo., and I’m not cool enough to skip vaccines, so we were there. At this point, what goes down during our visits no longer shocks me, it’s more that the child abuse authorities actually weren’t tipped off and weren’t waiting for us at the door upon our arrival. Nevermind that my son is 2 1/2 and still can’t walk properly and was crawling around in his socks (read: makes jaunty steps while clinging to furniture and screams whenever I try to put shoes on him), I think the highlight came when he actually started to roll around on the floor of the exam room. This is something I would have have gasped in horror over…before I actually HAD a toddler who broke his leg (scratch that–had a toddler, period)…The cuts and scraps on his face resulting from an apparent run-in with a large wooden bear earlier in the week only served to further my case as a candidate for child neglect. So there we were, a walking advertisement for birth control, when my daughter got stabbed 4 times in her legs with shots. And no, she doesn’t start screaming–she starts that pitiful infant gasping for air when their world is too horrific to even produce sounds. Yes, rockin’ my now vomit-covered long-sleeve tee (my daughter was EXTREMELY worked up and got her stomach on board), I was most definitely Mom of the Year through-and-through and desperately penciling in our 9 mo. appt.–penciling b/c, let’s be real, pen seems like too much of a commitment, but yet still entering it in the calendar provides an opportunity for me to redeem myself…
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