So I finally got into the clinic to get my blood drawn (see previous post). I had both of the boys with me. Iain was worried about the blood draw, a little teary, and very tired. So he sat on my lap and watched the nurse. Oh, the nurse.
First, she gave us the first negative reaction we've had about adopting. She thinks we already have two little ones, so why would we want another?
Second, she argued for a few minutes about how far away we live:
Her: So you're really an hour drive from here?
Me: About 45 minutes, actually.
Her: My brother lives in your town, and it's right over there (she points).
Me: Well, it took us 45 minutes to get here.
Her: But my brother lives there, and it's closer than that.
Me: (really? Are we really arguing about this?) Maybe he lives in a different part of town.
Her: Well, he lives closer than 45 minutes.
Me: (internally) AHHHHH!
But here's the kicker. My almost-three-year old watches as she sticks the needle in my arm. In an attempt to make him feel better, I explain the process, point out the blood collecting in the vial, etc. (Meanwhile, the nurse tries in vain to get that rubberband thing off my arm while the needle is still in. Jerking it this way and that with one hand, mashing the needle down with the other, until I tell her I'll take it off myself. Ouch!)
She finishes, and puts the band-aid on. Iain asks what it's for, and I kid you not, this is what she says to my little boy:
It's so your mama won't bleed to death.
Did you really just say that?!