With our two kids, ages 6 & almost-from-hell, you really really really you just have to believe me on this one really do not want to tell them in advance when they’re getting shots.

Why?

Because they will jump out of the car when it is going 60 miles an hour just to avoid that shot.

Because that shot, it could kill them. Whereas (according to their way of thinking), jumping out of the car will not.

My husband followed our standard parenting technique of Lying As Much As Possible, For As Long As Possible, and what did it get him? A punch in the face from one angry Wacky Boy.

Wacky Boy: “When he says ‘he doesn’t know’ if we’re getting shots IT MEANS WE’RE GETTING SHOTS. IT’S THE SAME AS LAST TIME!”

And it was.

Wacky Boy, after the doctor visit: “If you ever try to get me a shot again I will punch you in the face again.”

Jesus. I’m glad I had to work this morning. Then they went to the store, cuz he had promised them treats. That’s how a punch in the face should be rewarded, no? From Steve:

Well, here’s how it went, right after Wacky Boy figured out Wacky Girl would be getting a shot, and he and his sister started negotiating for a treat. (They don’t like the office suckers, suckers. WM)

Wacky Girl: Their suckers taste bad! Can it be a treat that doesn’t taste like cat hair?
Me: Of course. What would you like?
Wacky Boy: A donut?
Me: Sure, we could get donuts.
Wacky Girl: No, I want hot cocoa and a cookie. But not one of those bad cookies. (She means the horrid vegan cookies. WM)
Me: Okay, fine. What kind of donut would you want, Wacky Boy?
Wacky Boy: The kind with sprinkles, of course. As big as a room!

Well, after he realized he was getting shot, he wanted a donut AND hot cocoa and a cookie.

BUT…. they were OUT OF DONUTS at the store!!

So we got a blondie instead of a donut for him, a blondie instead of a cookie for her, and a box of toast-shaped band-aids instead of a cookie for him. (Huh? WM)

And a brownie for the Street Roots vendor, which Wacky Boy claimed was his.

Me: Sorry, they didn’t have donuts, but I got you a brownie.
Vendor: Well, who doesn’t like chocolate?
Wacky Boy: Hey, that was mine!
Me: No, you wanted that first, but then picked out the cookie bar.
Wacky Boy: (Continues to argue all the way to the car.)

That’s right, my peeps. My son punched his father in the face, then fought with a homeless man over a brownie. Then I, not realizing all of this had gone down, brought home ice cream. So he got 14 or 17 treats, I lose track. I’m voting him Most Likely to Succeed.

WM