Each Saturday, I go to the allergy clinic to get shots. This is always good for sympathy from my youngest, who recently received his two-year immunizations.
"Where you going, Mommy?" he asks as I brush my hair.
"To get my shots." This elicits a look of sympathetic comaraderie. His eyes grow big.
"How many shots?" he asks.
"I have to get three shots." I tell him.
"Logan got four shots...here...here...here...here" he shouts triumphantly, poking his thighs for emphasis, sympathy dissolved in the joy of victory. He has one-upped me again.