Betty’s vaccinations.
I knew my daughter was beautiful. And nice to cuddle. And smiley. But I had not yet realised how much I love her until yesterday. She has been so busy eating and sleeping and crying and pooing and growing that I haven’t had a minute to stop and appreciate how lovely she is.
Yesterday morning, she had her first round of immunisations. Me, Dave and Betty trundled in to the surgery and plonked down in the waiting area fifteen minutes early, so we could begin the prolonged task that is un-harnessing her from the myriad of safety clasps, straps and clips, removing the stifling volume of pram layers, blankets, jackets and cardigans she is bundled in, and cleaning up any escaping poo. Forty minutes later, one jubilantly unrestricted little girl and two sweating, exhausted parents were ready for our appointment. Or so we thought.
Despite the fact we were fully aware of the fact that our little girl was about to receive vaccinations, it didn’t dawn on us that we were all about to experience something very unpleasant. Someone was going to hurt our daughter; and not only would we allow it, but would sit and watch it happen. Horrific.
As we sat cuddling our tiny, almost naked, sleeping girl, the nurse reversed the needle into the room. Her insistence on donning a Scream mask was inexcusably insensitive. And humming the Jaws theme was just plain cruel.
The administration was quick but definitely not painless. Betty screamed out in agony as the knitting needle entered her beautiful, chubby little thigh. It was at that moment my tortured little girl’s eyes met mine, swelled with tears, and, lips quivering, let out a tiny “how could you?” scream. And there was still a second needle to come. Heartbreaking.
Leaving the surgery, never have I squeezed her tiny hand so tight, or held her little body so close to mine. She sobbed her way out and across the car park. And she didn’t cry on her own.
Can’t wait for round two.
I knew my daughter was beautiful. And nice to cuddle. And smiley. But I had not yet realised how much I love her until yesterday. She has been so busy eating and sleeping and crying and pooing and growing that I haven’t had a minute to stop and appreciate how lovely she is.
Yesterday morning, she had her first round of immunisations. Me, Dave and Betty trundled in to the surgery and plonked down in the waiting area fifteen minutes early, so we could begin the prolonged task that is un-harnessing her from the myriad of safety clasps, straps and clips, removing the stifling volume of pram layers, blankets, jackets and cardigans she is bundled in, and cleaning up any escaping poo. Forty minutes later, one jubilantly unrestricted little girl and two sweating, exhausted parents were ready for our appointment. Or so we thought.
Despite the fact we were fully aware of the fact that our little girl was about to receive vaccinations, it didn’t dawn on us that we were all about to experience something very unpleasant. Someone was going to hurt our daughter; and not only would we allow it, but would sit and watch it happen. Horrific.
As we sat cuddling our tiny, almost naked, sleeping girl, the nurse reversed the needle into the room. Her insistence on donning a Scream mask was inexcusably insensitive. And humming the Jaws theme was just plain cruel.
The administration was quick but definitely not painless. Betty screamed out in agony as the knitting needle entered her beautiful, chubby little thigh. It was at that moment my tortured little girl’s eyes met mine, swelled with tears, and, lips quivering, let out a tiny “how could you?” scream. And there was still a second needle to come. Heartbreaking.
Leaving the surgery, never have I squeezed her tiny hand so tight, or held her little body so close to mine. She sobbed her way out and across the car park. And she didn’t cry on her own.
Can’t wait for round two.
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