So today Kyle got a splinter in his hand at daycare, I was informed upon picking him up, and he wanted to wait for Mommy to remove it. My heart bursting with pride, I thought to myself, wow, my son trusts in his Mommy the Nurse to take care of him.
Not so much.
Turns out, that was just a stall tactic, many more of which I was privy to this evening as we made it a household effort to remove said splinter. Of course, a splinter removal is a simple procedure, way way easier than anything I have to do to a kid in the course of a normal work shift. I've poked needles in kids, given shots and started IV's, poked tubes and suppositories unpleasant places, held them down to get stitches, scrubbed owies, held traction on broken bones, helped take beads and airsoft pellets out of ears and noses, put medicines and stinging glue in cuts - all manner of miserable things I've done to kids. Your kids, and their kids, and other people's kids. I suck when it's my own.
When it's the other kids, the kids in the ER, we have lots of strong helpers for holding errant limbs. We have sheets to burrito-wrap kiddos, and we have papoose boards. All of these things are unpleasant all the way around, but they accomplish the goal of holding a squirming ball of hate still so we can fix what's wrong. When it's really something nasty we have to do, we have medicines to just flat knock them cold for a little while. And when it's all said and done, mom and/or dad get to save the day, dole out the love and snuggles, all better.
When Mommy's the one doing the evil, it's a different ballgame. Knowing this going in, of course, I numbed his thenar eminence (the fleshy pad at the base of the thumb, and one of my very favorite nuggets of anatomical terminology) with lidocaine cream and then had him hold an ice cube in a baggie for even more numbing. I explained just what I was going to do, like I do for all of my patients, even the little ones, and I didn't fib or pretend it wouldn't sting a little. All of this is standard practice.
And then my heart came open when I pulled the cap off the 18-gauge needle I've found to be the world's best splinter remover - and my baby started crying and saying "No, no, you're gonna make it hurt even badder."
"No, son, I'm not going to poke this needle in your hand, just use it to 'scoop' the splinter out, like this." Demonstrated on my own hand, on big sister's hand too. Panic encroaching. Big sister enlisted to pull out the book on Walt Disney World and distract him with talk of next week's vacation. Big sister enlisted to hold hand. Mom-the-nurse astounded at sheer physical strength of 5-year-old boy.
You'da thought I was trying to saw off the kid's arm with a butter knife. Screaming, writhing, bargaining, tears, snot-bubbles, pleading "Mommy, it's gonna hurt very very very very very bad," squirming, fist-balling, all the while seeming like he was trying to be really tough. And the stall tactics. "Let me hold the ice again, just for a minute." "Let me try putting some water on it, I really really think it will help." "Let's try it in the dining room." "Let's try it in my room."
An hour later, we finally got the damn thing out, by the time we were all starving and exhausted. It was a fairly impressive splinter, and it was reasonably deep. Still, I coulda had it out in 5 minutes if it was somebody else's kid.
But somebody else's kid doesn't hug me when it's over and melt my heart with a sweet "I love you mommy, will you snuggle me on the couch?"
So today Kyle got a splinter in his hand at daycare, I was informed upon picking him up, and he wanted to wait for Mommy to remove it. My heart bursting with pride, I thought to myself, wow, my son trusts in his Mommy the Nurse to take care of him.
Not so much.
Turns out, that was just a stall tactic, many more of which I was privy to this evening as we made it a household effort to remove said splinter. Of course, a splinter removal is a simple procedure, way way easier than anything I have to do to a kid in the course of a normal work shift. I've poked needles in kids, given shots and started IV's, poked tubes and suppositories unpleasant places, held them down to get stitches, scrubbed owies, held traction on broken bones, helped take beads and airsoft pellets out of ears and noses, put medicines and stinging glue in cuts - all manner of miserable things I've done to kids. Your kids, and their kids, and other people's kids. I suck when it's my own.
When it's the other kids, the kids in the ER, we have lots of strong helpers for holding errant limbs. We have sheets to burrito-wrap kiddos, and we have papoose boards. All of these things are unpleasant all the way around, but they accomplish the goal of holding a squirming ball of hate still so we can fix what's wrong. When it's really something nasty we have to do, we have medicines to just flat knock them cold for a little while. And when it's all said and done, mom and/or dad get to save the day, dole out the love and snuggles, all better.
When Mommy's the one doing the evil, it's a different ballgame. Knowing this going in, of course, I numbed his thenar eminence (the fleshy pad at the base of the thumb, and one of my very favorite nuggets of anatomical terminology) with lidocaine cream and then had him hold an ice cube in a baggie for even more numbing. I explained just what I was going to do, like I do for all of my patients, even the little ones, and I didn't fib or pretend it wouldn't sting a little. All of this is standard practice.
And then my heart came open when I pulled the cap off the 18-gauge needle I've found to be the world's best splinter remover - and my baby started crying and saying "No, no, you're gonna make it hurt even badder."
"No, son, I'm not going to poke this needle in your hand, just use it to 'scoop' the splinter out, like this." Demonstrated on my own hand, on big sister's hand too. Panic encroaching. Big sister enlisted to pull out the book on Walt Disney World and distract him with talk of next week's vacation. Big sister enlisted to hold hand. Mom-the-nurse astounded at sheer physical strength of 5-year-old boy.
You'da thought I was trying to saw off the kid's arm with a butter knife. Screaming, writhing, bargaining, tears, snot-bubbles, pleading "Mommy, it's gonna hurt very very very very very bad," squirming, fist-balling, all the while seeming like he was trying to be really tough. And the stall tactics. "Let me hold the ice again, just for a minute." "Let me try putting some water on it, I really really think it will help." "Let's try it in the dining room." "Let's try it in my room."
An hour later, we finally got the damn thing out, by the time we were all starving and exhausted. It was a fairly impressive splinter, and it was reasonably deep. Still, I coulda had it out in 5 minutes if it was somebody else's kid.
But somebody else's kid doesn't hug me when it's over and melt my heart with a sweet "I love you mommy, will you snuggle me on the couch?"