The triple needle nightmare

What must it be like when, at four months old, you're wheeled in to a strange, bright room, confronted with an unfamiliar face, suddenly trouserless and staring down the barrel of three very sharp syringes?

So it was yesterday for Baby B as I took him for the last of his newborn jabs. Delivered in three doses over a 12 week period, I had not been to either of the little chap's first two imunisation appointments. Keen to do my paternal duty I therefore persuaded Mrs B to let me take him on my own this time around.

"It's not nice," she warned beforehand.

"Don't worry sweetheart, we'll be fine," I confidently replied, before heading off to the surgery.

As it transpired, 'it's not nice' was somewhat of an understatement. Whereas the little man had no idea what was coming, I was expecting a short sharp shock for him, and perhaps a few tears. What I wasn't expecting was to have to fight back tears myself!

Holding your baby son in your arms as a stranger inflicts pain on him, even it is for his own benefit, is incredibly hard to watch. I was amazed at how emotional I found the whole experience. Baby B screamed until he went red in the face and I had to gulp back the lump in my throat as I reassured him that everything was all right. The nice, friendly nurse who had greeted us had, in the space of three injections, turned in to an evil bringer of pain.

Thankfully Baby B regained his composure long before I did, calming quickly after being wheeled out of the nasty nurses's office. I, on the other hand, required a strong cup of tea and a sit down.

Thank God we don't have to do that again now until he's one!