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Want to watch my heart break? You can, every two months, same place, same time, at the pediatrician.

This installment was particularly harsh.

Baby J was having a great time: he kicked, he waved his arms, he laughed, he smiled, he shrieked in joy and delight, even the pediatrician smiled as she watched him...

And then he got his vaccinations.

In the "He Won't Remember It, Anyway" file I try to keep open in my mind are the notes about how a moment's pain is better than having, say, whooping cough (!!!). Along with that sit all the statistics about cold and flu season, and the fact that the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends vaccinating -- and that my pediatrician, who doesn't care how you raise your kids as long as they're happy and healthy, has only one real requirement when interviewing prospective parents: you have to do the vaccines.

Too bad the other file is so emotionally manipulative. Let's call that one the "But You Ruined My Son's Day!" file. (No, the exclamation mark is not optional.)

There's not much in that file besides a big reminder that "You Ruined My Son's Day!" (And by "you," actually, I mean me. Because I gave it the okay and signed the paperwork.) Behind that, of course, just to drive the message home, is the sneakier sheet of paper with the small print that repeats over and over, "butit'sallyourfault,ElizabethMT,butit'sallyourfault."

That's the genetic Catholic side. Praise be.

So even though I can now hear Baby J laughing at the sight of Freckles (who, for some reason, is by definition hilarious), the drumbeats in my head are starting up and they show no sign of stopping.

And it's all my fault.

As, by my own logic, is whooping cough.

Although I believe the scientific name is "Pertussis."