The flu situation is a little scary around these parts lately, and it seems all over the country.
Normally I am kind of whatev about the whole thing, but since I have a fragile little newborn, I decided it was time to go get the shot. Everyone except Lute and I got them months ago, so I told him Saturday morning that we were going to get ours.
Let me give you a little back story: Lute, like most kids I suspect, whimpers at the very mention of the word "shot". My sweet little man has always been very tender, and maybe a little fearful of most things. He stresses out about natural disasters and is sensitive to mean words or people having hurt feelings. We've been working on the idea of courage with him for the last year, but I was dreading taking him to get a flu shot because I was convinced he'd be super anxious before, during and after.
And then he schooled me.
I saw a look of horror sweep across his face when I told him the news, but just as quickly it turned to steely determination. "Cool, Mom, I love shots. Let's go."
We went to Target, signed all the paperwork and waited our turn.
"Can I go first?" he asked, cool as a cucumber.
I agreed and he took his place in the red plastic chair. The pharmacist came around the counter, armed with fancy bandaids and scary needles.
She was warm and sweet and sensitive to the fact that she had a little five year old in her chair. Only she didn't need to be because Lute was completely determined that shots were awesome, and that's all there was to it.
He didn't flinch at the needle, didn't shed a single tear, just stuck his arm out, took it like a man and got his red bandage.
The pharmacist was so impressed and told Lute she had 12 year old boys who cried getting their shots, which is a story Lute now tells anyone who will listen.
"I'm tougher than a 12 year old, you know," complete seriousness all over his face.
Then on the drive home, my arm started to ache from my own shot. I thought surely this is what would do Lute in. I looked at him in the rearview mirror and said, "Man, buddy, my arm is so sore. Is yours?"
"No. I'm sure you'll be ok, Mama."
Again, schooled by my five year old.
I love ya, Lute.