A New Normal: Our Shots in Life

              His blue eyes seemed to sparkle as he smiled at me, exposing his teeth that had begun to cut through his gums before he rams his toy into his mouth. As I look into his eyes, I see my reflection as if I was looking into a clear blue lake. I stroke his head, reminding myself that this was good and that it was ok if it hurt.

The nurse takes out some needles and gloves before saying, “Ok, I just need to make sure that he is laying down. The shots will be in his legs.” With that, I lay my son back. All the while, he continues smiling, looking up at me—I am his familiar. I am the one he counts on. I am the one that can help him when he is scared. He trusts me.

              The nurse snaps her gloves onto her hands, then takes out the needles. She already has the band aids ready. “This will just be really quick,” she says before placing one needle into my son’s chubby thigh.

              As she does so, I watch his eyes. At first, they widen, shocked and unsure about what is happening. But just as quickly, I can see the dots click in his mind- “That hurts,” his eyes seem to say. He shuts his eyes tight and let out a cry that breaks my heart as the nurse continues with the second shot, then the third, then the fourth. Once done, she takes the band aids and place them over the spots where the shots were given, trying to soothe the baby as she does so. Once she’s done, I pick up my baby, bouncing and patting him as he continues to cry. He buries his face into my neck.  

          

              “Take all the time you need,” the nurse says as she packs up her belongings. “Nobody will be here for a little while, so don’t feel like you need to rush out if you want to hold him for a little bit.” I thank her, and she goes out the door, leaving us alone.

              His cries become little whimpers, and his little hands grab my shirt. I continue to say, “It’s ok, Baby, it’s ok. You can cry. I know it hurts.” As I do so, he lifts his head and looks straight at me, tears sneaking out of the corners of his eyes, and I see a look of such sadness, almost betrayal. He continues to whimper and look at me, as if to say, “Why did you let her do that, Mommy? Why did you let me hurt?”

              And my heart breaks for him. I hold him close and let him cry until the whimpers become a slow breathing and he is pacified. I kiss his cheek and place him in his car seat, ready to leave and move on with our day.

              In the car, the rumble of the drive soothes him to sleep. I think to myself how I have faith that those shots will benefit him and help him from becoming too sick. I allowed him to experience some pain with the faith that they will benefit his future.

              As a parent, I am grateful that God allows us to get even a peephole glimpse of what Godhood must be like—to create a little human who is a little bit of you, to love that little human with every fiber of your being, to want the best for them. You watch that child every milestone, from their first smile to their first laugh, to their first step to their first fall. You cheer them along the way, clapping and smiling when they accomplish something good, and you mourn with them when they are sad, holding them and soothing them until they are better. Their happiness is your happiness, their sadness is your sadness, and their joy is their joy.

              I think back on when the hardest things happened in my life- when my parents and brothers passed away, when I felt alone, when I felt like I could not move on. I remember those moments when I thought, “Why did you let this happen? Why do you let me hurt?”

I see a parallelism. When God allows hard things to happen, it’s so easy for me to think He has forgotten me or abandoned me. It’s so easy for me to assume that perhaps I did something that deserved that pain. But what if it’s not so?

              What if it’s because He knows that pain, that “shot,” is going to benefit me, or prepare me for the future? Like a medical shot, in the eternal spectrum of things, they are but “for a small moment,” and “if [we] endure well, God will exhalt [us] on high…” (D&C 121:7-8).

              When our “shots in life” happen, I hope to remember that He is there, watching over me. He is the shoulder I can cry on when I hurt. I hope to remember that He does it for my good.