Traumatized
Can you imagine having someone hold you down every couple of weeks so that people can hurt you? And you don't understand why they do this?
Imagine if your boss came in once a month and said, "I'm sorry, but it's time." Panic, terror sets in because you know what's coming. It always comes. A group of people you don't know rush you, speak soothing words as they immobilize your limbs. Your own mother is there, holding down your arms. Someone comes in with a giant needle and plunges it into your arm. Or maybe they have a knife and they cut you, over and over. You thrash, you fight, you cry and snot's running down into your screaming mouth. Who are these people, and what are they doing? Why won't they let you go? Why does it hurt so much? When will it stop?
Then it does. They leave you. Your mother holds you and tells you you did so well, but you want nothing to do with that beast. That woman who pretends to love you, only to allow you to be assaulted by these strangers with their sharps. So you brood, alone. Until you can force yourself to forget.
This is what my baby goes through for every blood draw, IV placement, vaccine and now, every haircut.
My mom is strong, healthy and capable, but she's 67, and she held my baby down, on her lap, as I tried, in vain to cut my baby's hair today. Why cut it, you ask. Let it grow long and free! I'm a hippie, and i love long hair, and my babies have some GOOD hair. I'd love to let her grow it, but when you come at her with a brush, she runs like you're going to beat her with it. So, alas, it must be kept short. She screamed like the damned, like we were shoving hot pokers under her fingernails. My parents' mostly-deaf cat lay upstairs, alarmed, needing my dad to calm her. It was traumatic. I took a break; I was sweating and about to panic/cry/die or something. I went outside.
Many minutes later, after talking with her about it profusely, we got her to sit and show Seesaw pics of her class to my mom while I cleaned up the cut. It's a wedged bob, and looks super cute, though probably done with pruning shears, at least that's what I expect her teachers to think of it come Monday. It's the best this cosmetologist could do.
You can't explain to my child why she needs these things done--she won't understand. Avoid pain is all she knows. Hell, she shut down today because, upon seeing a few sprouting armpit hairs, I let her know come summer, we'd need to start shaving.
I just put her to bed, and she gave me a bunch of magical kisses. They don't have shit on Mommy kisses. I love her so much.
Imagine if your boss came in once a month and said, "I'm sorry, but it's time." Panic, terror sets in because you know what's coming. It always comes. A group of people you don't know rush you, speak soothing words as they immobilize your limbs. Your own mother is there, holding down your arms. Someone comes in with a giant needle and plunges it into your arm. Or maybe they have a knife and they cut you, over and over. You thrash, you fight, you cry and snot's running down into your screaming mouth. Who are these people, and what are they doing? Why won't they let you go? Why does it hurt so much? When will it stop?
Then it does. They leave you. Your mother holds you and tells you you did so well, but you want nothing to do with that beast. That woman who pretends to love you, only to allow you to be assaulted by these strangers with their sharps. So you brood, alone. Until you can force yourself to forget.
This is what my baby goes through for every blood draw, IV placement, vaccine and now, every haircut.
My mom is strong, healthy and capable, but she's 67, and she held my baby down, on her lap, as I tried, in vain to cut my baby's hair today. Why cut it, you ask. Let it grow long and free! I'm a hippie, and i love long hair, and my babies have some GOOD hair. I'd love to let her grow it, but when you come at her with a brush, she runs like you're going to beat her with it. So, alas, it must be kept short. She screamed like the damned, like we were shoving hot pokers under her fingernails. My parents' mostly-deaf cat lay upstairs, alarmed, needing my dad to calm her. It was traumatic. I took a break; I was sweating and about to panic/cry/die or something. I went outside.
Many minutes later, after talking with her about it profusely, we got her to sit and show Seesaw pics of her class to my mom while I cleaned up the cut. It's a wedged bob, and looks super cute, though probably done with pruning shears, at least that's what I expect her teachers to think of it come Monday. It's the best this cosmetologist could do.
You can't explain to my child why she needs these things done--she won't understand. Avoid pain is all she knows. Hell, she shut down today because, upon seeing a few sprouting armpit hairs, I let her know come summer, we'd need to start shaving.
I just put her to bed, and she gave me a bunch of magical kisses. They don't have shit on Mommy kisses. I love her so much.
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