Our family got tested for COVID this week, a Christmas tradition I think we’ll skip in the future. Drive-up testing at the urgent care center was easy, except for our eight-year-old sobbing in the backseat because he’d been tested back in August and thought he’d never have to get swabbed again. Once the tears subsided we all handled our nasal probes gracefully, until we had a truly only-in-Wyoming moment: as the doctor went to put our six-year-old’s swab into the specimen tube the wind blew it out of his hand. We watched the little swab land on the concrete with horror. All eyes turned to our daughter, who was smiling.
“It wasn’t that bad,” she reassured us. “I was tough, right?”
My husband and I shared a look. Which one of us would have to break the news? (It was me. I lost.)
“Yep, you were tough. And now you’ll have to be tough some more because the doctor has to do yours again.”
It took less than a day for our results to come back, an early Christmas present (all negative!). Next year I’d rather have a pony.