Pint-Sized Helper

I hate needles. I'm trying not to use the word "hate" so much. I'd like to be one of those people who can say they rarely say "hate" because then when I do it's more powerful. And since the little ones get jabbed every few months I'm working on getting used to needles. But I hate them. HATE! And I'm trying really hard not to use the word hate. At Ireland's 18-month check-up her Dr told me she wasn't quite due for her next round of Hep A. Aaaaaargh right! The girls' birthdays are close enough I had them go in on Liesel's birthday, not Irelands. So she's a month shy. However, the Dr told me I could have Ireland get the first round of the flu shot and then get the second when I bring her in again in a month. That seems something a responsible, caring parent would do right? Get the flu shot. Yes, let's do that.

The nurse is always too chipper when she brings in the cursed needle. She lets me choose which arm will receive the shot and I opt for Ireland's left knowing she favors her right. Ireland sits contentedly on my lap while the nurse wipes her perfectly smooth, cream cheese skin with the antibacterial wipe. The smell lingers a bit when out comes the needle and I swear it's 3 inches long. I'm sure she's going to hit bone because suddenly Ireland's arm looks so very tiny. My gut tightens and tears spring to my eyes. I try to remain calm knowing babies can sense moods but I can't help it. The nurse plunges and Ireland's face simultaneously crumbles. As she withdraws the needle, a bright drop of red blood appears and the nurse dismissively says, "She may have a bruise for a couple of days." Ireland's crying is now mixed with a look of betrayal. Her bright red cheeks are making her big blue eyes look all the more pathetic with their fat tears. I'm supposed to protect her, and that pain happened on my watch, in my arms, at my bidding. I try to kiss her and hug her while the nurse mops up the blood and tacks on a band aid. Got any of those for a broken heart? I feel downright horrible exposing my baby to one of my very own greatest fears. Sweet mother of Abraham Lincoln, I HATE NEEDLES!!! But it's what a good parent would do, right?

Predictably, Ireland gets a cough and the sniffles a few days later. Then she wakes up from a nap and is utterly panting for breath. Her belly is practically convulsing trying to get sufficient air and I can hear her from across the room. I'm not a hysterical mother (at least I don't think so). But I'm concerned between a weakened immune system from the flu shot and my own lingering bronchitis/pneumonia, Ireland has caught something serious. I call the Dr and they tell me to go ahead and bring her in. Hmmmmm, what about Liesel? Precedent has shown she doesn't like seeing her baby sister in pain. I call a friend to see if she can watch her but I'm out of luck. If I want to get to the Dr's office before it closes for the weekend I need to get the girls in the car pronto.

Ireland has not forgotten the Dr's office in the slightest. The same chipper nurse greets us just inside the door and Ireland immediately starts bawling. Vitals are taken and we wait for the Dr. Because we're walk-ins, it's clear we are being fitted in between appointments. The minutes stretch and I try to come up with ways to entertain the girls. Finally I pull out my iPod and they're both immediately immersed in the bubble wrap game. Then the Dr comes in. Ireland sobs again, and he hasn't even touched her. He needs to get a good listen to her regular breathing which is nigh on impossible with her screaming bloody murder. I'm so sorry sweet baby, it's not a shot this time, PLEASE just let him listen! He won't hurt you... I promise. The Dr is good-natured about Ireland's less-than-perfect-patient attitude but I can tell he has a job to get done. I try to sing to her but it's all drowned out in Irelands wailing misery.

Somehow in Liesel's toddler mind, she understands the situation. Perhaps not the depth of my anxiety over it all, but she sees her little sister upset, and she sees the dr who needs her calm. She begins jumping up and down to distract her, asking for "high fives" which always make Ireland laugh, and pulling up Muppet music videos on the iPod. She dutifully stands in front of her sister, holding it up for her to watch and be entertained. When one ends, she deftly finds another one, her little fingers sliding over the screen impossibly fast. At long last the dr is able to take a good listen to Ireland's beleaguered lungs. My own tensions ease slightly as I'm overcome by Liesel's maturity. And then it's done. The good dr tells me to watch for breathing over 60 breaths per min and a fever over 102. He assures me she will likely be better by the end of the weekend and asks if I have any questions. We walk out and the girls get well-deserved Dum-Dums.

In the car I shower Liesel with compliments about what a good sister she was and how proud I am of her. She responds by gleefully ripping off the wrapper, "I got a BLUE one!" Yes Love, you got a blue sucker. So glad you like it. I'm emotionally drained and after picking Brent up from the train station I take a steamy shower with Ireland to help her breathe. She lays her head against me so the soft curve of her cheek perfectly matches the base of my neck. Her strawberry blonde hair curls up with the mist and her little arms lay limp. Looking down at her I can see the ugly bruise that was the cause of all this. Ireland barely moves as I rock her gently. She's exhausted too and for the moment we just breathe together.

From now on I'm opting out of the flu shot. I don't care if that makes me a bad parent. I hate needles. And I'm trying not to use the word hate, I really am.