Julie Jay: My baby son takes his vaccine shot like a champ but he is also in pain
When the text comes in reminding us that JJ is due for his latest vaccination, my heart drops. Not because I am choosing to forgo the jab for ethical reasons, but because every time I bring him in to be poked with a needle, it feels like a betrayal.
I know little about the intricacies of vaccinations, because, much like Meghan Markle before meeting Prince Harry, I don’t Google beforehand.
I trust my doctor to advise me as to what is best to do for the children, much like I trust my mechanic when he informs me what the buttons on my car dashboard do. (On that point, did you know there’s a whole set of buttons that can control the temperature in your vehicle? Turns out we don’t have to wear spaghetti tops while driving to Christmas Eve mass after all).
Never having discussed vaccinations with my friends — preferring, instead, to keep conversation to the important stuff, like durable foundations and who has been the most attractive Taoiseach — I was surprised when one of the girls brought up the subject in the WhatsApp group.
The responses were mixed.
While all had chosen the jabs for their children, quite a few expressed distrust in the medical system, citing various articles that posited research as to why vaccinations weren’t always the best choice for children. Part of me felt like I had been doing my smallies a disservice by placing my trust in medics, but then I reminded myself I had only recently discovered what BLT stood for, let alone the MMR injection.
And so off I trotted, with zero hesitation, when the SMS reminded me it was time to dust off the Calpol and nip into the medical centre for the baby’s next batch of injections.
It doesn’t get any easier, being vaccinated. In fact, I’m sure having to hold your child’s hand while they endure any form of medical procedure will always remain traumatic.
Just last week, I fielded a call from a good friend on her way back from her three-month-old’s first jab.
“I’ve told himself he has to go the next time. I’m ready for a stiff drink now,” she sniffed down the phone. And despite it being only 10am on a Tuesday, who would blame her?
Just as he has done previously, JJ entered the nurse’s office smiling and being his eternally optimistic self. However, as the nurse approached, I swear I clocked an emerging scowl on his face, as he, no doubt, did the maths and worked out that it was, indeed, time for his next round of shots.
This isn’t my first rodeo, but I still remove his cardigan, because I am an ’80s child and have the horribly scarred upper arm to prove it.
When reminded that it is, once again, the thigh we’re after, I inwardly groan. I know I’m doing the right thing for my son, but it feels like a betrayal, as we all know what’s coming.
JJ takes his vaccine like the champ that he is, but, of course, he is uncomfortable and in pain, because they’re just tiny humans with a couple of baby rolls standing in between them and what appears to be intolerable pain.
After JJ, the person I feel most sorry for is the nurse, who, of course, has been vilified for life in the eyes of our baby, despite my reassurances to him that she is doing us a favour.
As I say this to JJ, he throws me some side-eye, which tells me he is now fully convinced I am part of a broader conspiracy and am in cahoots with this woman I should be chastising from a height.
When we emerge from the nurse’s office, my eldest and my husband are in the waiting room. JJ squirms in his baby seat, and my husband asks how it went, as if we just spent the last 10 minutes doing baby yoga, which, I suppose, if you factor in all the movement, we probably did.
“He’s not happy,” I say, because our seven-month-old is most certainly not. He seems to find Ted’s sunny disposition a slap in the face as he reconciles this latest betrayal from Mammy with everything he once held dear.
Shaken, we skip out to the car (and, by skip, I mean Ted, of course; the rest of us shuffle out with the gatch of people who have been through the absolute ringer).
“We’ll have to be extra nice to JJ today, Ted,” I say, and as I manoeuvre the seat-belt to secure the baby in a manner akin to something out of Cirque du Soleil, Ted reaches over and rubs his little head.
“It’s OK, JJ. Ruairí will mind you,” he says, handing him a tiny dinosaur, his latest herd favourite.
JJ gives the semblance of a smile, and I smile, too, at Ted’s thoughtfulness, but obviously remove the tiny dinosaur from JJ’s paws as it poses a serious choking hazard.
The rest of the day is spent reassuring JJ and myself that I’ve done the right thing based on the information we have — which is all any of us can do, especially those of us with an arts degree.