When I was pregnant, I was prepared to be weepy and crazy hormonal. I will confess to crying at Oreo commercials, TV shows (mostly sit-coms), movies and even the odd movie trailer (tearing up at the preview of the Life of Yao was my real high point). After Clementine was born, I also cried--cried when I first held her, cried when I studied her face and felt my heart would break from so much love, cried when I realized one day she would feel pain I couldn't stop. Those were happy-sad tears, bittersweet little bubbles of hormones as I slowly woke up as a new mommy, madly in love and totally freaked out. There were other tears: frustrated tears when Clementine wouldn't nurse, tired tears at 3 a.m. when I thought Nate was the biggest jerk alive (he wasn't, nor was I the biggest bitch as he might have been imagining--we were just really, really tired). I've read the books--these tears are all to be expected, and I've now had a few weeks without any crazy crying jags out of nowhere.
Until today.
Today we returned to the pediatrician's office, a place I remember hazily but fondly from Clementine's first few weeks of life. The first time we went, it was a family affair and our first outing since bringing Clementine home from the hospital. The second time, Nate had gone back to work, Clementine was still losing weight because she wouldn't nurse and I babbled my head off about every single feeding, every pattern, every problem I had encountered to my daughter's very understanding doctor. Yes, he sat and listened to me for 20 minutes and comforted me and acted like I wasn't crazy or boring or just like every new mother he had ever dealt with. Needless to say, I heart my pediatrician.
And I trust him, too. I went today knowing that immunizations were in order but that he would be willing to support me if I chose to hold back and wait a while longer. We talked a lot about them, he gave me some of his theories and I ultimately decided to start with the DTaP and Polio today and read up on the others before next month's visit. He then excused himself, joking that he never gives the shots because it is important for the babies to like and trust him--he has hentchmen to give shots on his behalf. Should I leave also? I half-joked, not wanting Clementine to associate me with even a second of pain. But before I knew it, there were the nurses leaning over my little girl, asking me to hold her hands out of the way before they counted to 3 and stuck needles into her thighs in a synchronized torture dance that made Clementine instantly turn red and wind up for a big scream. Of course before all this happened, I burst into tears for the first time in weeks and, truth be told, I cried harder than Clementine.
After the shots, the nurses left me to dress Clementine and get her calmed down. This was a difficult task, as I could hardly see from the tears that were pouring out of my own eyes. I quickly gave up and sat down on the floor to hold my baby and weep with her. Why was I crying? I don't know. Yes, it's awful to see your child hurt, but will I be like this every time she skins her knee? I was nearly inconsolable for a good long time, although eventually Clementine got it together and I was able to look into her puffy, red, tear-stained and still beautiful eyes and pull myself together too.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't cry some more once in the safety of my car. Or that I didn't check on her every five minutes as she napped this afternoon, looking for the dangerous side effects of immunizations like fever or convulsions. She seems fine--much better than me, in fact.
And so another whole day slips by without much accomplished. It's crazy how much a baby slows down your life. Normally, I would have tried to fit in about 10 errands, lunch with a friend and a haircut after a morning doctor's appointment. Today, I was happy with just that little bit of excitement and a whole afternoon of watching my kid as she napped.
1 comment:
As my friend Erika points out, your child won't remember this part of her life anyway--all that fabulous mothering, all those horrifying shots, all that stuff, it'll probably all go out the window and what will be left are holistic memories of your having been there and having cared that she cried. Sorry this was so freaky. I doubt you'll always be like this; on the other hand, maybe it would be worse, more frightening, if you weren't responding dramatically to dramatic things as they happen to your child. It's not as though you've had her around for years.
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