I debated about whether or not to get my children the H1N1 vaccination. Then I remembered that I'm a hopeless hypochondriac. Luckily, on Wednesday, a free vaccination clinic opened to all school-aged children by the Bangor Regional Health and Community Services. I planned to be the first one in line. I also planned not to tell my children where they were going until they were secured in their seat belts and unable to runaway. That was the plan. Instead, I told the boys their fate before we left the house. 

Owen, my 6 year old, flung himself onto the ground and cried in a new, dramatic way that I had previously only experienced watching cartoons. Tears were literally flying from his eyes and shooting through the air in rapid succession. They didn't drip down his cheeks; they bursted forth. It was instantaneous as soon as I said the word "shot." Also, he was picking himself up and throwing himself down on the floor over and over again. 

I didn't wanted it to come to this, but judging by the response, I knew drastic measures were necessary. "Owen, children are dying from this flu, and although the shot will hurt, it will hurt worse if you get sick," I said. "This is important for you, and it's important for the people around you." 

All joking aside, I meant what I said. Through my diligent research on the subject, I couldn't find one good reason based on facts and from a reputable source not to get my children the vaccination. I saw numerous examples of why I should. 

We arrived at the civic center about five minutes before the 8:00 a.m. scheduled opening, which ended up being about one hour late because the line already snaked around the building, through the parking lot, and down Buck Street. It was like a premature school reunion for the kids. As we walked to find the back of the line, the boys saw friends from their class, other classes, and even other schools and sports teams. The excitement caused Owen to momentarily stop shooting tears.

In the beginning, everyone's mood was curious, giddy and neighborly. We knew we'd be in line together for at least an hour, so we settled in to make friends with those we didn't already know. It reminded me of standing in long lines for gas and water after a hurricane in Florida. Although the reason bringing us together was potentially dangerous and stressful, for a moment, we reveled in the shared excitement, and perhaps gratitude, of having our ordinary lives of routine, bill-paying, chores and meetings thrown completely out of whack. It is the ultimate surrender: the phone company, the boss, and your deadline will simply have to wait. What else can you do? And you're all in it together.

The group's mood deteriorated, however, when the first hour passed and we were still on the wrong side of the building and nowhere close to the end. After the second hour, Ford, 8, Owen and I moved with the line inside the building, where at least it was warm, but where it also was plainly obvious that one might catch the flu trapped in such close quarters with a several hundred other people.

Dustin left with our youngest son, Lindell, 3, to get snacks and drinks. He was gone for a very long time, and halfway through the third hour, I discovered a new definition of torture: waiting in line for three-plus hours with two children, only to be herded at 0 mph past a vending machine and having no money. By this point, Ford and Owen were begging, "Can we please just get our shots and be done with it?" 

Dustin and Lindell returned with a bag full of Wendy's just as Ford, Owen and I were introduced to our newest friend: the kind, patient nurse (even after all those hours, children and tears!) who would inoculate my children against the flu. When we sat Lindell down in the chair, he thought it was to eat his lunch. "My chicken, Mommy?" he said brightly, and then, BAM, the needle went into his muscle. 

When Ford and Owen saw the blood come out of Lindell's arm, there was more throwing-self-on-floor and shooting-tears-from-eyes maneuvers. Thankfully, the nurses worked their magic and gave my boys the shots they needed. (Later Ford would say, "Those nurses were the nicest I've ever seen.") Lindell, who still thought we were there for lunch, was absolutely stunned, his mouth hanging to the floor. For almost an hour afterward, he occasionally mumbled, "My chicken, Mommy?"

Happily, the older boys never realized the irony of waiting in line for three and half hours, only to be poked with a large needle, and getting nothing in return except a cheap sticker. They thought the sticker was worth the wait. Of course, as the parent, I know different. I know they received much more than a sticker that morning. They received a fighting chance against H1N1.