The Dude's Cool in a Pinch

Nate finally had his 3-year checkup last week, and I'm starting to wonder if he's really my son. No, he looks nothing like the mailman. But he's intrigued by his own blood in ways I can't comprehend even when I'm not looking straight down at the floor.

I'm a pretentious braggart when it comes to Nate, so I got a kick out of answering the nurse's milestone questions. "Does he climb stairs taking one foot per stair?" she asked at one point. "Sure," I said, thinking about how he conquers swinging ladders and anything else at the playground that leads upward. Even the list of age-related milestones in this pediatric guidebook we have is pretty funny. Three years: Your child can throw an object 5 feet forward. Yes, and smack overhand pitching 40 feet, when he's not lining shots off Jenn's lip. Four years: He can pedal a tricycle 10 feet forward. Yup, ahead of schedule there. Five years: He does not get overly upset when left with a babysitter. If it's Babci or Auntie Sherri, he pretty much pushes us out the door so he can get back to assembling elaborate train-track interchanges. Six years: He can catch a ball with only his hands. Um, by 6 years old, we're expecting at least some feelers from lower-level Sox scouts. Although, while he does hit like Pedroia, he still fields like Lugo and throws like Damon. On one of Damon's good days, but still.

Maybe I'm a jerk, but I just find him delightful, whether he's ditching diapers completely, even overnight, as he did several weeks ago; assembling 24-piece puzzles in a few minutes; or coming up with impromptu jokes in the car ("I'm gonna kick my ball at the park." "Well, don't hit anyone with it, or they'll kick us out." "Yeah, like I kick my ball"). Even when he's serving a timeout for one of his stubborn, 3-year-old screaming fits, I know I'm only minutes away from a hug and feeling proud of him again. I can't help it. He's really cool.

Which brings us to the blood test. Nate was expecting shots and didn't seem too bothered by the idea (then again, he loves bees, even though he clearly remembers -- and still talks about -- being stung last fall during apple picking). As it turns out, he wasn't due for any vaccinations, but he did need a finger prick for a lead test. He jumped a little when he was pierced, after which I tried to get him to look at me. But no -- for the next, oh, 90 seconds, he insisted on staring at the finger from which the nurse was taking drop after drop of blood. She was squeezing blood out of him, and he was simply ... fascinated. And didn't seem to mind. I -- being prone to dizziness due to my lifelong blood-drawing phobia -- was staring down, mostly, and rubbing Nate's chest, although he probably should have been rubbing mine.

He was pretty proud of the "bandy" on his finger and the red mark still there when it came off a little later. And when he told the nurse he was 3 years old, he got to pick out three stickers: two Thomas engines and one with a bunch of dinosaurs. Hard-earned stickers, if you ask me. I was positively beaming, after regaining my balance.

I should add that I recently, with much prodding from Jenn, went for a cholesterol test. I got exactly zero stickers. Wasn't anyone proud of me?

I can also hit overhand pitching, sometimes. And field at least as well as Lugo.

Comments

[Dawn]

Those finger pricks *hurt*. And my own blood? Needles being stuck into my person? Recipe for me to pass out cold. Seriously. I am thinking if you aren't raising the next Dirt Dog, perhaps you are raising an MD?

By the way? Give yourself some credit. A cardboard cutout with an Easter basket hanging on it can field better than E6.