Raging Bull

I decided this past week that had I been born a Native American, I would have named my son, Raging Bull. He could grow up to be Chief Raging Bull. I know, I know, he looks innocent. Sweet.

But you've never taken him to the doctor and been required to hold him down for a nebulizer treatment for bronchitis.

I had that feeling (from God) the night before that his 'cold' had gotten worse. His breathing seemed shorter, so I determined to take him in the next day after teaching class. The sweet young doctor determined he indeed had bronchitis. She said she wanted him to have some nebulizer treatments before she sent us home with the medication. Turns out, he did not like a mask on his face with puffs of steam blowing into his mouth and nose. He fought back. My shock at his response took about 0.3 seconds to register. I could do nothing but try to get my mouth off the floor. My girls had these treatments all the time in Singapore. I nearly bought a machine at one point because we had rented it so many times! They might have whimpered a bit. But nothing like this. At one point, I had my leg over his legs. I had bound his arms with both my arms. My head was pressing against his head to hold it down. The only thing he could move were his feet. So he took those little hiking boots (that were so cute at Goodwill last summer) and rammed them into me with all his might.

You know the problem here is that he is 16 months old, but weighed in on the doctor's scale at 30 lbs. So because his brain is 16 months old, I can't reason with him. But this boy, he is my strong Raging Bull. Anyway, the result? I did win. But he came in a close second.

And then after it was done, the nurse gave him his first ever lollipop. Sweet, sticky syrup dripping down his mouth and arms. Toddling from examination room to examination room, all smiles, all friendly. You'd never know he should have been named Raging Bull.
(Mr. Campbell's wardrobe in this post is compliments of our sweet former babysitter China! Go OSU Cowboys!)