Oh. The. Pain.

I'm about to take Claire to her 18-month checkup. Actually, she'll be 19-months, but that's just "stewbie" style. Always a day late and a dollar short. Or in my case, a couple weeks late, and "where the hell did my change go?" It's all irrelevant.

I think she's getting shots today, which just horrifies me. Have you seen those needles? They're frickin 6 inches long, and the nurse always shoves it all the way in the baby's thigh. It's like she's testing for bone-density or something. I think the worst part of it all, however, is that silent millisecond, right before the kid screams, when she looks at you like, "Why the fuck are you letting them do this?!" THEN the screaming begins. When Claire gets her shots, they have to open the door to the room, because she screams so loud and so high-pitched, that if all that sound is contained in that small space, our eardrums will burst and our eyes will start bleeding.

Meanwhile, all the kids in the waiting room start screaming, too. It's like when you go to the zoo, and one monkey thinks he's a badass and starts screaming at people. Before you know it, ALL the monkeys are screaming, rattling the cage,and throwing their shit. Monkeys, kids, it's all the same.

After the pediatric gestapo administers Claire's shots, I'm going to take her back to work with me. There's some chili-cookoff-thing going on (only in TEXAS can you miss work for a chili-cookoff), and other edibles besides chili will be there. I figure I'll buy the kid a hotdog. I mean, what says "I love you and i'm sorry your thigh got punctured by the fucking space needle" more than meat of an unidentified origin? NOTHING.