My mom bought us some really yummy meat from Omaha Steaks. We cooked up our Top Sirloins, and Mia decided she wanted to try some of mine. I cut really thin strips against the grain and let her dip it in Teryaki A1. She decided she really liked it.
We had our well check-ups the last few days. The office we go to won't let us bring all three on the same day, so the twins were Friday and Mia was on Monday. The first thing they did was prick Bree's finger and collect her blood drops in vials. To keep the wound from clotting, the nurse rubbed her finger- hard. Bree was in a ton of pain, and I knew it wasn't just from the prick on her finger. The nurse actually rubbed the skin right off her knuckle. Duh! I'm sorry- but squeeze her freaking arm, rub further up her hand... it isn't like her heart is located in her knuckle. And since that was the very first thing they chose to do, both Bree and Anya were terrified the rest of the time, and needed a ton of coaxing (Mia had to demonstrate half the procedures for them before they would cooperate) even to stand on the scale. I think the second most annoying part about all of it is that the blood "draw" was totally pointless. They are going to test it to make sure they are as healthy as they look, not tell us the results, and nothing is any different except now Bree has a huge black scab on her knuckle and is terrified of the doctor. Anya keeps looking at her sister's finger and saying "Dockuh huht huh!" Which is Anya-ese for "Doctor hurt her!" The most annoying part is that I should have spoken up. Nurse or not- she doesn't care about my kid as much as I do, and I should have remembered that.
Monday we went back for Mia, the twins extremely reluctant to let go of my legs. Somehow the conversation I'd had with the nurse last time left me with the impression that Mia wouldn't be getting any shots. Wrong. I guess it was kind of merciful, because the five minutes she spent crying over the impending doom was probably much less torturous than an entire weekend would have been.
I felt so guilty, though, for having mislead her, I asked her what she would like for a special treat.
"Can I have more of that meat?"
I told her I'd get some at the store tomorrow just for her.
"Tomorrow" turned out to be a lot more hectic than I'd planned, and my back went out (again.) I figured there was no way she would remember. Wrong again. When she learned that I hadn't bought steak for dinner, enough tears were shed that I called Zach to see if he would pick some up on the way home.
So here I am typing instead of cooking. We'll be eating late. Us and the four-year-old steak-eater.