You were a champion at the doctor’s office.  You took that needle like it was a hug, hardly blinking, and only repeating what I told you before the nurse came in.  After your exam, I explained it like your doctor had.  There would be a pinch.  It would be quick and it would hurt.  Then it would be over.  You repeated the words pinch and hurt because you knew those words, understood them.  And then the nurse came.

You stared at her, watching her like she was going to mess up.  And afterward, you just looked down at the little sticker.  You touched the spot on your thigh.  And later, on the way to the car, you repeated a few times, “It was a pinch, daddy.”  It was your way of saying that thing still hurt.  I asked if you were okay and you nodded.  But you said a few more times tonight, in case I forgot, “It was a pinch, daddy.”