A Shot In My Junk


I hated shots when I was a kid

My wife teaches elementary school.  Through the years, she’s regaled me with descriptions and anecdotes of 1st and 2nd graders, who tend to speak with few filters.  Yesterday was no exception.

Her friend, a 1st grade teacher, greeted her class as they began to share–they talk about whatever’s on their minds at the time, and do so daily.  As some shared, others hung up their coats and emptied backpacks.  Eventually the discussion reached a face fresh from the bus, a ruby-cheeked cherub who wincing, said “Today I’m getting a shot in my JUNK.”

A bit surprised and not quite sure she’d heard correctly, the teacher urged him to repeat.  “You’re getting a shot WHERE?”  “In my JUNK, “he repeated through a grimace,  “You know, in that little hole I got on the end down there?”  ” That’s what I THOUGHT you said.” muttered the teacher, moving to the next student

Later, once the kids were on their bus, she phone the boy’s mother.  The teacher asked “Today your son mentioned he was getting a shot…”.  “Yeah, in his JUNK,” she said “and he’s not looking forward to it one bit”.

The apple indeed falls close to the tree.  Later, the teacher’s lounge echoed with laughter at the retelling of this frank exchange.

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