Written for a challenge on Ficly that asks writers to write something out of their usual genre. I went for something from a mother’s perspective. Maybe I’ll never know if I’ve been accurate at all on this one.
She cries and cries, little thing perched up on the bench while the doctor gives her the shot. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. She screams like someone is cutting her arm off. The pediatrician holds her gently to keep her from flailing, but doesn’t do much by way of calming her, like speaking to my child is some kind of taboo.
Tears drip off her red chin, red nose, red eyes. All I can do is stand in the corner and sigh and shudder gently like I know she will after the weeping is over and she has calmed down.
She will fall asleep in the car, sweaty, dressed in that little blue and yellow dress of hers, with the Disney band-aid covering the tiny cut. Pulling her out of the eighty degree car as she dozes will be a challenge, but eventually she’ll outgrow my arms. There’s something so valuable in enjoying it while it lasts. It seems like as soon as we get done growing up, we’ve already started growing old. Maybe someday when I’m old, we’ll have traded shoes, and she’ll be carrying me to my bed when I pass out in the car.
Until then she just sits in this doctor’s office and cries, while I look on, eyes maybe a shade redder than hers.
Originally on Ficly: http://ficly.com/stories/15946
Also, so far I’ve kept up a minimum of one Ficly a day for the past week, with a two a day average. – Adam