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I need a glass of wine. On second thought, make that a couple shots of tequila. Actually, let’s cut to the chase with a full-body sedation that will take me straight to tomorrow.

Whoever said that vaccinations are a measure of protection never visited a kid’s flu clinic. We just returned — battered and bruised, literally and figuratively — from the school district’s H1N1 flu clinic. Not since the heyday of the Cabbage Patch Kids back in the ’80s have I seen so many screaming kids and frantic parents, all jockeying their way to the front of a hot, sweaty, endless line.

Endless is only a slight exaggeration. The line stretched through every hallway of the elementary school, spilling out into the parking lot. We waited for 2+ hours, with Claire wriggling in my arms like a baby goat the entire time. (John suggested later that I should have brought a stroller, but I reminded him that planning ahead is for sissies.) During the entire wait, I assured Savannah and Abby about 312 times that they would NOT — I repeat NOT — have to go anywhere near a needle. The plan was that they would get the painless flu mist (where the coveted poison is sniffed up the nose) and that only their baby sister would be subjected to the shot.

I would soon eat those words, causing severe indigestion. When we finally reached the gymnasium, which resembled a wartime hospital with its cots and trays of needles and shrieking kids, the nurses told us that because Sav & Abs had just had the live culture for the regular flu vaccine a week ago, they couldn’t have it for H1N1. The only option was for them to get the shot. Two little faces twisted with horror and betrayal.

Abby’s obligatory protest dissolved with the promise of 5 coloring books and new markers, after which she sniffled and whined her way through the shot. Claire was clueless until the moment of the plunge, so that wasn’t so bad. Savannah, on the other hand, demonstrated her typical iron will. When her turn came, she screamed, cried, flailed, and punched the air. At one point, when she realized I wasn’t going to let her off the hook, she pulled out the big guns and let loose the worst insults she could think of, including the lovely:

“I HATE YOU!”
“I WISH GRANDMA WAS MY MOMMY!”
“I NEVER WANT TO LIVE WITH YOU AGAIN!”

Keep in mind, these were screamed at the top of her lungs in the middle of a crowded, jam-packed, hot gymnasium. This lovely performance was witnessed by a) Savannah’s principal, b) several of her classmates, and c) all of their parents. They watched with bulging eyes and a new appreciation for their quiet, sniveling children.

When it became clear that Savannah’s hysterics wouldn’t be ending anytime soon, they effectively kicked us out. “We have a long line, ma’am,” the nurse said curtly, giving me an official letter stating my child was uncooperative and couldn’t be vaccinated. I proceeded to throw my own juvenile temper tantrum (heck, the audience was already primed), yelling at Sav that she was going to get horribly sick, that she’d probably wind up in the hospital, that I was ashamed of her, and that there would be “repercussions” when we got home. I then stomped out, leaving my bewildered mother with the three kids.

In the parking lot, we spent another half an hour trying to convince Sav to go back in. Finally, after warning her that she’d be in store for many more shots if she caught H1N1, she reluctantly agreed. After some groveling, we were allowed back into the gymnasium, where Savannah’s principal (who officially qualifies as a saint in my book) kneeled in front of her and distracted her while the nurse finally plunged the needle home.

Good news: my girls are safe from H1N1. Bad news: the memory of the evening’s horrors may have permanently damaged their fragile psyches. Is it too late to register my nomination for Mother of the Year? I figure I’m a shoo-in.