Violet is two months old today and we “celebrated” with a visit to the pediatrician (for some reason, I keep wanting to say “vet”). She’s up to 11 lbs., 12 oz., a weight that tells us she’s gained more than an ounce a day since the beginning of the month. That’s a good thing; our doctor said she rarely sees babies grow so well across all areas. Violet could be the vegan poster child.
Weeks of research into vaccines left us open to just one of the seven they wanted to give her today, and although I knew it was for Violet’s own good, that it was all part of being a parent, and that I had to just watch and console her as best I could, I wasn’t prepared for what I felt when it actually happened. That sliver of a needle pierced her skin, her face turned purple, and she cried so hard that it was one of those horrible, silent cries. I watched it happen, and I wanted to rip the syringe out and throw the nurse through the wall. I felt it for a moment, the instinct to protect that is there despite all reason and rational thought.