Come Again, How Many Vials Of Blood?

In most internationally adopted kid's life there comes that doomed day when she must innocently follow her mother or father off to the local international adoption clinic for dum dum dum...a quick prod and general testing.

Yes, this sounds par for the course in any 10 month old's life right?

This day was yesterday for us. She pretty much set the course for telling the infectious disease Dr. what she thought about the whole deal by pooping twice while in the room. He barely winced at the aroma giving him extra bonus points which he needed since he has got to be about as old as some of my older underwear. She checked out fine and he proclaimed her a "keeper". I'm not kidding he said she should be a keeper, ugh ok. Would he ever tell any proud parent to send her back to China in a box? He explained her ears and sinuses looked gross and prescribed yoghurt to protect her stomach since yet another round of anti-biotics are necessary to stop the incessant goo that runs from her nose.

Then he sent us promptly off to the hospital next door for blood work. I've sort of had myself worked into a lather about this stick and run episode for weeks now. This is probably since I still hear Ava's wailing in my sleep from when she presented a non-bleeder elbow four years ago. The phelobotimist (is that a great title or what?) took one little peek at her wiggly stringy arm and called up to pediatric nursing. They came down and asked how old? I said, "ten months". They said, no way we like the newborns. So, Olivia and I followed up with "who is going to get the blood from this kid"? The overly pregnant phlebotimist called an emergency room nurse from next door who agreed to take a shuttle from next door to attempt the feat.

I called the Muffin Man at home while hyperventialing into a paper bag asking him to pick Ava up from preschool since we were going to be a while.

30 minutes later the emergency room nurse, who should be annointed, got 6 vials of Livi blood from a whrithing and heaving infant. She was sweet enough to ask if I was coping alright since I was crying black mascara all over my daughter's pink outfit. Thank goodness it's washable.

We consoled ourselves with Wendy's fries on the way home. Yes, Olivia is comforted by french fries. We are indeed soulmates.