Anything for Punk

Long ago, I discovered that motherhood is walking a fine line between two camps of thought: “Knowledge is power,” and “Ignorance is bliss.” For this very reason, a mother invented the 10-Second Rule and all enthusiastically subscribe to it.

While we know that a fallen pacifier is less clean than it was seconds earlier, we don’t know that it fell into a cesspool of salmonella exactly. And if it did, surely the ear-piercing screams of our now empty-mouthed child--or our own for that matter--have momentarily stunned said bacteria, delaying launch of its primordial offensive for at least 10 seconds.

Besides, we have a plethora of counter-offenses at our disposal. Some even involve alcohol. Ooh.

But then cold and flu season arrives and with it the reality that, “The less we know, the more we suspect.”

Our maternal senses become keenly attuned to the signs of viral invasion. A sneeze. A cough. Flushed cheeks. Love of liver mush. An unexplained nose twitch. We alter shopping routes to avoid aisles 8 through 12 because we hear someone sneeze in aisle 10. We cancel play dates because we learn a sister of a friend’s third cousin twice removed had a runny nose last week.

This is all to say that I got a flu shot last week.

Which I haven’t done since 1992 when I recall the needle was 3-feet long, ½” in diameter and hurt. Really, really hurt.

They still hurt, but I love Punk. And as a mother, you can’t put a price on being healthy.

Although Walgreen’s can--$24.99 to be exact.

As I waited, I calculated how much I’d saved by not getting a flu shot for the past 16 years. $399.84. Then I estimated how much I’d not saved by tempting the viral fates and quickly asked to be moved to the head of the line.

But I was the head of the line.

My 16 year rebellion came to an end at 4:45 p.m. that afternoon. If the pharmacist was slightly shocked when I pulled a camera out of my purse, she was absolutely beside herself when I asked for a sticker.

Yes, I love Punk, but I’m also a sucker for gimmicks. Especially heart-shaped stickers upon which Punk’s name is boldly emblazoned—OK, quickly scrawled by an annoyed pharmacist—announcing to all who saw it that it was for her that I got my flu shot.

Punk was most appreciative.

In return, she gave me a cold. And then thrush. At least we can say she knows how to share. Every night, we play “Rock, Paper, Scissors” for use of the humidifier.

Punk always wins by a smile.