Tuesday was time for little Eli’s first round of inoculations. To which Diana and I quoted “Raising Arizona” profusely. “You gotta get the Dip Tet, Hi…”
We’ve planned for a life of unplanned pain and suffering for our son. Leaving the stove on, sledding mishaps, etc. But to actually participate in causing Elijah pain? Really?
Luckily, I could use the old work excuse. “Sorry, I can’t make it to Eli’s shots. I have a meeting with, uh, President Bush? To, uh, talk about advertising?”
So Diana was stuck going to the doctor. Now, for those of you who are first time readers to the blog, our baby boy has had a rough two months. Acid stomach, searing gas pain, the emotional stress of having a giant black dog as a brother. So my lovely wife was not looking forward to the “procedure.” Again, she wished she were a whisky drinker. Or Eli was.
Well, the moment of truth came and the doctor shoved a needle in my baby’s leg. And what does he do? Falls asleep. I’m fairly convinced he’s doing this just to make me go insane.
p.s. I realize I’ve used far too many question marks in this post. Unlike my wife and son, I AM a whisky drinker.
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