Monsters, Inc.

After a trial run two months ago — meaning that we had a very observant grandmother functioning in a supervisory capacity — Connor and I made our first solo trip to the doctor's office today. Connor is still alive and I don't think our insurance company has dropped us, so I think we did alright. It helps that the 18-month checkup requires no shots, though Connor didn't know that, and he acted like he could see the needles coming for him the entire time we were there.

As soon as the doctor entered the exam room, Connor began Operation Freakout. He wasn't exactly pleased when she started poking him with her stethoscope, or any of the other tools she used. He didn't think she was funny and didn't think I was being protective enough, because he kept looking at me with an expression that said, "you can see what this witch is doing to me, right? Halp!"

Snot was running down his nose, he was clutching on to me like he was on top of the Empire State Building and had decided not to jump at the very last moment, and he had a convulsive kind of crying happening. It wasn't one of his prettier moments. I kept telling the doctor that I could just hold him down and let her do her thing so it would be over quicker, but she kept trying to connect with him and entertain him.

"Doc, I'm not talkin' Abu Ghraib-style torture here, but holding him down might help a little, don't ya think?"

Once she finished working him over, he clawed his way out of my arms and ran to the opposite corner of the room, his back against the wall and his arms spread out against the arm, looking very desperate for an escape. After about two minutes of chit-chat between the doctor and myself, he cracked a wicked little smile. I'm not sure if he realized that the shots weren't coming, or thought he was Hulk enough to shatter any needles that tried to puncture his skin, but he looked like a wild man.

I swear he winked at me.