Once again, I originally planned on writing about a different topic, but then, well, life happened. Yesterday I ended up at the Pediatrician’s office with my sixteen-month old. I swear, this poor little guy just can’t catch a break. And let me tell you, this kid does NOT like the doctor’s office. He’s been there so many times in the past year for colds, coughs, ear infections, you name it, that as soon as we get into the office, he starts to get anxious. And when the nurse comes in? Forget it. He is in full-blown panic mode, eyes wide, big, fat tears rolling down his face, clawing at me and holding on for dear life. The irrational side of me wants to shield him from the nurse and keep him protected from a situation that is obviously terrifying him. Luckily I have a (somewhat) rational side that holds him out to her, letting her poke and prod him, because after all, it’s for his own good. When I scoop him back in my arms, he hides his sticky, wet face in my breast. I stroke his cheek, and whisper, “it’s ok.” His breathing slows down and I feel his body relax. I keep stroking his face. “It’s ok.” He picks his face up, a string of drool still connecting us, and he smiles and giggles. He knows it’s ok.