Innoculated

You squirm the moment you hear the crinkle of the paper on the examination table. I hold your arms firmly at your sides and try to meet your eyes as I whisper tender words and give you haphazard kisses as you shake your head from side to side. Your eyes are frantic with panic; every fiber of your 19 pound, 30 inch body is struggling to escape. Your father holds your legs while the nurse sticks you with a syringe, efficiently pushing fluid into the muscle of your left thigh.

One – your screams raise a notch.

Two – breathing borders on hyperventilation.

The nurse moves to the right thigh and delivers the last dose, dabs each puncture mark and covers them with bright blue Snoopy band aids. It is over.
I wrap you in my arms. You hiccup and continue to whine as we gingerly put on your pants, socks and shoes. You bury your face in my shoulder; wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist as we walk through the clinic to the car. Our soothing “it’s okay,” and “no more owies” don’t seem to dull your pain. Or ours. As you snuggle in closer, looking for comfort at my breast, I find no comfort in the knowledge that this isn’t the last time we’ll make you cry.