Between Bruises and Blooms

One by one, they climbed into my lap, not knowing why we were there or why strangers kept asking them to be so brave.

Three little pokes each.

Six tiny needles for two little girls who have only been in this world for one beautiful year.

The cries came fast, the tears came faster, and my heart broke in two identical pieces.

I whispered, “Mama’s here.”

Again. And again.

Tiny fingers grabbed my shirt. Tiny faces buried into my shoulder. Trust, even through the hurt.

They won’t remember today.

They won’t remember the doctor’s office, the quick sting, or the little bandages on their arms.

But I’ll remember.

I’ll remember holding two brave little girls whose courage wasn’t measured by whether they cried, but by how quickly they found comfort back in my arms.

Because growing isn’t always gentle.

Sometimes love looks like holding your babies while they cry, knowing the momentary pain is helping protect their tomorrows.

Three little pokes.

Two brave girls.

One mama who would’ve taken every single needle if she could.