That even the doctor said what a happy baby you are made what everyone but you knew was coming seem all the more unfair.
The nurse said to hold your hands. The smell of alcohol wrinkled your nose. The first needle made you sob then gasp. “Let her breathe,” the nurse said when I moved in closer. “Just let her breathe.”
Back home, you won’t be put down. You won’t uncurl your chubby legs. And every now and then you seem to recall the morning’s betrayal with the miserable little whine of the freshly and cruelly wronged.
And there is no comfort in explanation when “is good for you,” and “will feel better soon” are just more new sounds that don’t quite resonate. And there is almost no consolation except to keep singing, “You are my Sunshine,” to try to make you smile, to pick you back up when it doesn’t work, to say over and over, “I got you. You’re OK.”
A long road, small steps.
So long and so small. And some of them hurt. And sometimes you’ll cry.