Eli #2
The doctor pauses. Julian closes his eyes for one second like he knows exactly what’s coming.
“Today?” I repeat, staring at her.
She nods with the kind of patience usually reserved for unstable people and concussed athletes. “Yes. Two-month vaccines are part of the standard schedule.”
“How many?”
“Eli,” Julian says, already warning.
“No, because I need specifics right now.” I look back at Dr. Peters. “Two? Three? Are we talking about one in each leg? What exactly is the method here?”
Dr. Peters opens her mouth, stops very carefully, and does not look amused. “We follow standard pediatric immunization guidelines, and the nurse will walk you through exactly what she’s getting before we administer anything.”
“That’s still not a number.”
Julian laughs fully this time, the absolute traitor. “You need to calm down.”
“I am calm.”
Both of them look at me, and I hear it too late: I do not sound calm. I sound like a hostage negotiator who’s one minute away from a full breakdown.
Mila, sensitive to chaos, starts fussing.
“Oh, jeez,” I mutter, stepping forward automatically. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Okay. Apparently, people are stabbing you today, but I am present and spiritually opposed.”
Dr. Peters finally gives up trying not to laugh. Julian hands Mila over to me, still grinning, and she settles against my chest almost immediately, the little traitor, as if I wasn’t just actively losing my mind about confirmed same-day vaccinations.
“Okay,” Dr. Peters says once she’s got herself under control. “First, the nurse will tell you exactly what she’s getting. Second, this is routine and important. Third, babies generally handle shots better than parents do.”
“I don’t believe that,” I retort flatly.
Julian pats my back once, unhelpfully. “I do.”
I turn to glare at him, but he has the nerve to look soothing.
Worse, it works. Mila is warm and soft against me, and the ridiculousness of the situation starts to catch up with me all at once.
I’m in a pastel exam room with my daughter tucked under my chin and my best friend beside me while I argue with a doctor about immunizations.
At some point, I realize my face must look increasingly unhinged because Julian shifts closer and takes the hand not supporting Mila.
That should not help as much as it does.
I don’t even look at him at first. I just feel his fingers wrap around mine, steady and warm and entirely matter-of-fact, like this is not a bizarre thing to do in front of a pediatrician, and this is just another extension of the way he’s been holding me together from the edges lately.
I finally glance at him, and the look on his face stops the rest of my protest. He’s not laughing now. He’s just there. Hazel eyes fixed on me in that direct, infuriating way he has when he’s already decided I’m not allowed to spin out any further than this.
“Breathe,” he murmurs.
The rest of the visit goes better after that, right up until the nurse returns with the vaccine tray and starts explaining exactly what Mila is getting.
I hold Mila while Julian stands close enough that our shoulders touch, and by the time the nurse says we should keep her moving a little afterward to help soothe her, I’m one bad sentence away from offering to take the shots myself.
Then Mila actually gets them, and I discover a whole new layer of hell.
She screams.
Not her usual angry little squawk. Not her feed me now cry. She screams in this shocked, wounded way that goes straight through my ribcage and takes out every functioning thought on the way.
“I know, baby, I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, fuck, I know,” while bouncing her against my chest and trying not to start crying harder than she is.
Julian takes over the room without making a show of it.
He gets the bottle ready and reminds me she’s breathing fine.
He says she’s okay so steadily and so often that eventually I start believing him by force.
The bottle and the warmth and the movement do their job, and Mila’s cries break down into angry hiccups and then wet, betrayed little snuffles.
Then, because the universe thinks I haven’t suffered enough, Mila rewards us with an absolutely catastrophic diaper while she’s still emotionally recovering from the shots.
I don’t mean normal bad. I mean biblically bad.
The kind of diaper that makes Julian say, “Fok my,” under his breath and reach for the wipes with military urgency while I stare at the changing table like it’s an active crime scene.
“How is that amount even legal?” I ask, horrified, opening a second wipe packet because the first one won’t survive this. “There shouldn’t be enough mass in her body for this.”
“There absolutely should not,” Julian agrees.
Mila kicks both heels in complete serenity, one sock already missing, because of course it is.
When Dr. Peters comes back, I’m halfway through the diaper change while Jules stands there holding a balled-up contaminated onesie at arm’s length.
The doctor takes one look at us and says, “Looks like she picked a good moment.”
I laugh so hard I nearly drop the wipes.
“It’s not funny,” I say, which would carry more weight if I weren’t laughing while Julian calls me useless and asks for a clean sleeper.
We get Mila back into a fresh sleeper, and the doctor goes over the final instructions. Feeding on demand, extra cuddles if she wants them, fever guidance after the shots, call if anything feels off, and yes, it’s normal for her to be sleepier or fussier after vaccines.
“That feels targeted,” I say.
Julian is smiling openly again now, and I’d be annoyed if I didn’t know he’s enjoying this because it’s me, not because he wants Mila stressed. He stands close and rubs my back while the doctor flips through Mila’s file and asks if we have any last questions.
I look at Mila. Then at Julian. Then back at the doctor. “How do you know if you’re doing enough?”
She closes the file and leans one hip against the counter.
“You probably won’t most days,” she says truthfully.
“At least not at first. You’ll keep wondering if you missed something, should’ve done more, or are somehow one step behind where you should be.
That’s incredibly normal. The fact that you’re worried about doing enough usually means you care enough to keep trying until you figure it out. ”
I nod once because my throat doesn’t feel steady enough for more.
Dr. Peters smiles softly. “She looks well loved. That matters.”
Julian’s hand brushes the small of my back while I settle Mila more securely against my chest. The contact is brief and probably meaningless in the grand scheme of his life. It does not feel meaningless in mine.
We finally make it to the checkout desk, where I’m still mentally replaying Mila’s scream, when Dr. Peters steps out of the hall behind us to add one last thing. “Just make sure you and your partner keep an eye on her temperature today. Call if either of you notices anything that feels off.”
My whole body goes still for one tiny second.
Your partner.
She means Julian.
Julian, at my side, with one hand on the car seat and the other holding the little packet of aftercare instructions. Julian, who somehow looks completely unbothered by that assumption. Julian, who answers with an easy “We will,” as if it were the most natural sentence in the world.
I should correct her. He’s my best friend, not my partner. He’s helping me. He’s part of Mila’s life in all these complicated, vital ways, but not in the way that word means to most people. Correcting her would be the normal thing. The respectful thing. The clarifying thing.
I don’t do it. I just stand there with Mila against my chest and let the word settle over us while something strange and hot moves low in my stomach.
I adjust the strap of the diaper bag on my shoulder and say, a little too casually, “We should probably go before she has another emotional breakdown and gets us banned.”
His mouth curves slowly, and there’s something in his eyes I absolutely cannot afford to examine in the middle of a pediatrician’s office.
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is low enough that I feel it more than hear it. “Probably.”
We walk out together, and I try to stifle a smile at how right that feels.