So, today Chewey had his first blood draw.
God bless him. (For those of you who are teachers, you will recognize this statement for what it is)
Now, don’t get me wrong, I adore my son. He’s funny and smart and cute. He’s also, sometimes, a pain in the ass.
Today we went to the pediatrician, and he needed to have some lab work done. Now, I’ve been fighting a migraine for two days, so maybe I’m not in the happiest of moods. Light is too bright, people are too loud, my head hurts, and I’m running a fine line between starving and nauseous.
So, now that that’s been established, suffice it to say, I am not in the best mood.
Neither is the boy. (Or the girl. But more on that later)
So, after a series of mishaps, I finally got Chewey to the phlebotomist. He was actually okay with this entire process. Surprisingly okay. Given how he flipped out over simply having numbing cream placed on his arms, I should have recognized this for what it was…
The calm before the storm.
(Also, Chewey complained loudly and often that the cream “burned like fire.” Bad mom that I am, I said, “Little dude, your arm is numb. It can’t be burning.” More on that later)
Anyway, once we were called back, Chewey got up in the chair. The phlebotomist, who can find my veins with ease (no small feat, that), then had him get down so he could sit in my lap.
Chewey broke out in a sweat and started crying.
Then screaming like he was being attacked with an axe. I started to wonder when the two cops I saw outside were going to come in and search the place for a victim.
“No! You can’t have my blood!” he wailed. He punctuated this with a blood curdling scream. “I still need it!”
“Chewey,” I said softly (meaning, I shouted this into his ear, trying to make him hear me over the sound of his wailing). “If you do this, I’ll take you out for ice cream!”
“Really?” he asked. Then: “Ow! You’re killing me!”
Phlebotomist: “I’m standing over here. I didn’t even touch you.”
Chewey: “Oh.” Then: “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”
Now, Chewey was being tested for allergies, and, as the phlebotomist had me peel off the tape holding the numbing agent in place, we discovered the first one: adhesives.
You know that arm I told him couldn’t hurt because it had a numbing agent on it? Yeah, totally swollen with hives less than a half hour later. Poor little dude. I felt bad. I’m allergic to adhesives, too. My arm swells up like that, too.
It really does hurt. Wretched Mommy.
In any case, needless to say, this did nothing for Chewey’s mood.
He started screaming bloody murder. As the phlebotomist approached, he shrieked, “Get away from me, you bloodthirsty villains!”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. I mean, how many times have you wanted to call a phlebotomist a bloodthirsty villain? Also, if I didn’t laugh, I would’ve started drinking, and all the hooch is at my house. Super inconvenient, that.
Eventually, the phlebotomist got the blood drawn (thank the Lord), and we were allowed to leave. Chewey was still yowling.
As we were walking into the waiting room, the place went silent. it was almost like doing the walk of shame after a significant wardrobe malfunction. Almost.
Anyway, as we were closing in on the door and my escape to freedom, I heard someone say, “So, we’re going for ice cream, are we?”
I laughed. “Sure,” I said. “Right after his dad comes home.”
**Chewey did get his ice cream, though I wasn’t entirely sure he deserved it, given the screaming. But then, he’s six, and he admitted he was scared, and he doesn’t do well in managing his anxiety. In all, a good time was had by all.**
***But you know what could have made it better? Jeremy Renner. There, I said it. If the phlebotomist had looked like Jeremy Renner, played the piano, and professed his undying affection for me, perhaps I may have enjoyed my time at the lab. Alas, despite my very vivid imagination, even I couldn’t make a forty year old female phlebotomist into Jeremy Renner. Can’t blame a girl for trying, though.***