When my kids were younger, it was easier to get blood from a stone than to get blood from them. How well I remember the team of nurses that had to be rushed into the examining room when my daughter needed to be stuck. I'd hold down her legs, somebody else would hold down her arms, somebody else would hold down her head, an extra person would be needed to keep her body from wriggling, and the doctor or nurse in charge of the needle would have to dart in and try to find some subdued flesh with a vein in it. I was pretty sure they called in extra personnel to work whenever we were on the schedule. My son, they didn't even bother with -- he had to go to the lab, and be tied to a papoose board. This was not fun for him, or for me. I felt like both my son and the technicians must consider me the worst mother in the world, although for entirely different reasons.

 

This past week we went for blood again, and I have to say, it was better. Which does not, of course, necessarily mean that it was good.

 

Our pediatrician's office no longer does blood-letting, and although I was pretty sure it was my daughter who had spoiled them for it, the doctor assures it's just a matter of cutting back and specializing and everybody's doing it. So we all went to the lab, and we all waited 45 minutes, and then the kids were called to the back. And honestly, I'm amazed, but my daughter did great. I turned her head toward me and we talked about how badly she was going to kick her papa's butt in one-on-one basketball that afternoon, and before we both knew it, it was over. Easy as pie. No restraints, human or otherwise, required.

 

But my son ... He had been full of bravery going in, but that's before he realized that giving blood involved having a needle plunged into your arm, and that realization caused him extremely loud consternation. He started screaming he didn't want to do it while the nurse was still swabbing his skin, awkwardly pinning down his arm with hers (I coulda told her THAT wasn't going to hold). I started counting, because counting often calms him, but he kept screaming as the needle went in, yanking his arm and nearly flinging said needle across the room. But the needle stayed in, and since he was crying for his Scooby Doo doll, unwisely left at home, I started counting in a Scooby voice. That got his attention; he looked at me with teary eyes, amazed either that I had come up with such a comforting idea, or that I was willing to make that much of a fool of myself. I don't know what must have disturbed the people in the waiting room more: The sound of a screaming child, or the sound of a grown woman shouting "Rirty-run! Rirty-roo! Rirty-ree! Rirty-roar!"

 

But the lab got its blood, and we got out of there. My son has announced that he is never doing that again, so they better have got enough. In truth, I'm not so very eager to ever do that again myself.