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Baby W turned 15 months old today.
And on the 7th of every month, as he gets older and older, the hubby and I always take a few moments to play the “remember when” game…
Remember when he was so tiny he could fit on our forearm.
Remember when we stayed up the ENTIRE night when we first brought him home.
Remember when he couldn’t hold his own bottle.
Remember when he made a poo poo on the doc’s exam table, hehe.
Today’s “remember game” eventually led to:
Remember when we had to take him to the hospital…
I remember it like it was yesterday–one of the yuckiest days as a Momma yet!
So today I dug into the blog archives to re-read about the icky expereince with a new perspective…to remind myself how blessed I am for the outcome.
{REPOST, from 7 months ago…}
I hate needles…
…and today I was reminded why.
It all began when I was about 4 years old and I had a severe allergic reaction, requiring me to receive multiple steroid shots at once. I remember this incident like it was yesterday; sobbing my eyes out as my mom promised we could go to Toys R Us as soon as we left the doctors office.

In the years that followed, every time I was required to get a shot of any kind, tears would immediately fill my eyes. The needle some how pressed this invisible button on my body that triggered an emotional sob fest and the need for a hug from my mommy.

When I got pregnant,the hubby came with me to the doctors office to provide moral support as they drew my blood to run the standard preggo tests…imagine my surprise when I didn’t even get the chance to cry because Hubby passed out cold on the floor as soon as the needle entered my vein {what a sweet heart}!

The day Wesley was born I had to be hooked up to an IV–a process I was not looking forward to, and with good reason. Here is a picture of the Hubs and me just before they attempted to put the IV in:

 Happy as a clam! {and yes, I realize I was the size of a barn}
And here is a picture of me after 3 nurses attempted and FAILED to put in my IV (failed miserably and painfully, might I add):
How priceless is that look on my face? And can you see the cotton ball on my left arm? Yet the IV is in my right arm? Strange, right. That’s because the first three butchered attempts were on my left arm before they moved on to butcher my right arm.
{I would get an IV any day as long as this pure joy was the outcome}
And this brings us to my devastating experience today:
Mr. B has a rare blood disorder that Baby W has a 50% chance of inheriting. And today was the day we had to take him in for the blood work (which would be done with needles, of course). This would be the first time they would draw blood from my Little Man with a needle (usually they would make a small incision on his heel).
I was lucky enough to have Mr. B with me for what would be the hardest thing I have had to do as a mother as of yet.

Just like my IV experience, this nurse was unable to get a steady flow the first time she put the needle in my little 8 month old’s tiny little arm. The rather large needle stayed in his arm as she jiggled and jostled it around in hopes of stimulating blood flow. No such luck.
And meanwhile, my little guy was letting out the most piercing and heart wrenching shrieks and sobs you could imagine. I had never heard him cry like this before. I felt my throat swell up as the tears dripped from his chin. As the nurse pulled out the needle and told me we would have to try again on the other arm, I almost threw up right there. How could I let him go through this again?

I held back the tears as she switched arms and W began to sob in pain again. By the time she filled the entire vile, his crying had turned into hyperventilating sobs. I quickly wrapped him in my arms and promised him everything would be okay. I walked out of the doctors office with many looks of sympathy from those in the waiting room. At this point I had still managed to fight off the tears.
As soon as we exited the hospital, the tears began to flow–I couldn’t hold them back any longer. Every tear from every needle that had ever entered my arm could not compare to how I felt for what my son had just been forced to endure.
Neither Mr. B nor I said a single word the whole way home. As I sat there in silence I was filled with emotion as I thought of other moms out there who have to deal with needles–of other moms who have to hold the hands of their little ones as they get stitched up after their first accident–of other moms who stay up all night to hear the breathing of their sick child–of other moms who take their precious kiddos to get blood drawn, receive MRI’s, CT scans and Chemo on a daily basis–of moms who have to say goodbye to a little one too soon.
My heart was filled with sorrow and love as I thought of these moms. I thought of how much stronger and how much braver you are than me, of how much I have to learn from you, of how much I admire what you do!
So to all you moms out there:
what you do matters, and thanks for what you do!
Here is Little W when we got home–check out those band aides.
What a trooper!
UPDATE: Turns out, Baby W does NOT have his Daddy’s blood disorder–hooray!  The blood disorder is called hereditary spherocytosis {fyi}
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