My Sweet Boy

Last week our entire family made the trek to the public health clinic where Baby Girl received her first round of immunizations.

As the oldest of three siblings, my son is an old hand at visiting the clinic. (He especially enjoys the childrens' play area.) He knows the routine: sit patiently in the waiting room, undress baby at the weigh station, pile into the small examining room, talk with the public health nurse, give baby some shots, and then go out for hamburgers and french fries as a reward.

His favourite part, however, is ringing the bell.

The public health nurse usually keeps a small hand bell on the edge of her desk. When the baby cries out from the pain of an injection, the nurse will ring the bell as a distraction. (With my babies, this often works to make them stop crying.) My son loves to be a "big helper" and enthusiastically ring the bell.

This morning I needed to have some blood drawn. Taking all three children out on an errand tends to be quite a production. It often takes longer to get in and out of the van than it takes to complete the actual errand. As I was buckling the toddler into his stroller, snapping the baby into her Bjorn carrier, and searching under the car seat for my lab requisition form, I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve.

"Mommy, don't worry," my three-year-old assured me.

"Worry about what?" I asked my big boy.

"When you get your needle and you cry, don't worry because I will ring the bell to help you to feel better."

(I didn't cry when I got my needle, but my son was terribly pleased to receive a nifty armadillo sticker from the lab technician at the clinic!)