Round two on the splinter front yesterday. Sweet sweet Mario is ridiculously scared of anything sharp – needles, tweezers, shots…if it’s pointy, he wants it banished.

When we drove home from the farm on Saturday night, Mario started crying in the back seat. Jon and I asked him what was wrong and he stuttered out one word: “shots.”

“I don’t want to get shots when I turn 8.”

“Mario, that’s a long time from now.”

“I don’t care. I still think about it every day and can’t stop.”

“Baby doll, you will be fine. We all get them.”

“I will do anything mom. I will stay 5 forever. I don’t want to get older because I don’t want a shot.”

Jon: “I have to get shots a lot, Mario. You will be ok.”

“They hurt me though, dad. Can’t they just give me the spray?”

Mario has gotten the spray flu vaccine for the last two years and now thinks any shot can come in spray form. I had to hold his hand from the front seat for fifteen minutes until he finally calmed down and fell asleep.

So when he came into the bedroom Monday morning and announced that he believed he had a splinter, my heart sank. I dreaded the thought of trying to get a splinter out of his foot. Last time, it was all out hell with Mario kicking and screaming and bawling. Jon and I left him with David Monday morning and both prayed for a miracle. The splinter would somehow inch its way out.

Not so lucky. He was up in his bed when I got home. He screamed for me. I walked upstairs with the tweezers and safety pin behind my back.

“Please don’t hurt me, mom. Please don’t touch it. You can only look.”

It took fifteen minutes and Jon holding his hand for Mario to let me look at his foot. It took another ten for us to convince him to let us poke at it. It also took both if us promising him $5 each if he was brave and let us get it out. He held onto Jon and watched Spongebob on the iPad. As soon as I poked the pin at his skin he jumped and pleaded for me to stop.

“Please wait mom! Please let me tell you something!”

Funny how he is so polite during these moments. Jon and I listened to him and comforted him and listened and comforted. But finally we had to hold him down and dig in. I barely poked at the skin but if you heard him you would have thought we were cutting off his leg.

I got it!

I announced that I got it out and he looked stunned, relieved and dazed all at once. The horror was over. He promptly sat up in his bed, reacged out his hand, and smirked “ten dollars, please.” Yea, he will do anything for money.