Comfort.

My daughters get blood drawn very often, anywhere from every four weeks to every few months, depending on previous changes in their medications. Their blood and urine are tested to see what further adjustments need to be made in their daily doses of phosphorus and vitamin D to ensure that their bones grow straight and strong despite their x-linked hypophosphatemic rickets.

We're completely familiar with the pediatric phlebotomist at UMASS. Her name is Danielle, and she is quick and precise when pulling blood from tiny veins. Both girls have been seeing her since they were babies, and when she sees us in the waiting area, she's all, "Hey Rudy! Hi Marley!" I love Danielle not only because she's so kind and laid back, but also because I've tried the phlebotomists in the lab next to my pediatrician for convenience, and it has never, ever been worth it. Those ladies have always had to try to find veins at least three times and then mutter under their breath, in a kind but forced-kind sort of way, about the squirminess of Bean and Toot. I prefer driving out farther and paying to park in a garage and making a flipping morning of it, as long as it gets done right. And with compassion. In fact, Marley's and Rudy's endocrinologist moved to the ambulatory care building across the street from the other pediatric specialists at UMASS, but if we're only driving in for blood work, I bypass the new building and still head right for Danielle.

We went there yesterday after I picked up Beanie from preschool because she was way overdue. Now, when Marley was a baby, like under eighteen months, she had blood drawn like a champ. There would be some tears and about fifteen seconds of reasonable crying, but then she'd recover and we'd be fine. Then she hit three, and there was a lot of drama leading up to the draw. Loud, inconsolable wailing. Her head thrown back and her face all red with exasperation. She'd have to be restrained even more than usual, like with reinforcements. But I think it was about the anticipation and the attention. Sometime after four, and especially now that she's five, she's trying hard to be brave and tough.

She actually asked me sometime this summer not to tell her in advance when she's getting blood drawn so she won't worry about it. Yesterday, I didn't break the news until we were already on the highway. And she started crying and whining, and I reminded her to be brave and to show Rudy how a Big Girl gets blood drawn.

Okay. What happened in the office was so precious that I started crying a little. First, Marley decided to sit in the chair by herself, instead of on my lap. For the first time. She wanted me to sit next to her, though, and she wanted to hold my hand. So she was clutching my hand and I was holding Rudy on my lap, and Marley whimpered a little and a few silent tears rolled down her cheek. Rudy leaned over so that her face was right in front of Marley's, but sideways, and then looked back at me and said, "Mah-yee sad." While Danielle tightened the tourniquet, I asked Rudy if she wanted to give Marley a kiss. She didn't. But while the blood was streaming into the tubes and Danielle and I kept telling Marley what a Big Girl she was for sitting by herself, I told Rudy to let Marley know that it would be okay. And when it was all over, seconds later, Rudy leaned into Marley's face again, said in a perky, reassuring way, "S'okay, Mah-yee." And then leaned over farther, kissed her, and gave her a sweet little hug like only a two-year-old can.

Marley was fine, and Rudy was fine (and even got her own sticker and pink and purple arm bandage, seen above), but I was feeling my own tears coming. And then the moment was over and we were gathering our things so that we could head home. Where Rudy pulled on her new favorite ridiculously flouncy skirt, some beautiful shoes, and asked, again, for me to play "A Dream Is A Wish" so that she could bounce and stomp around before a late lunch. Which was okay with me.