I wasn’t sure about getting my kids COVID vaccines — until they exposed Grandma to the virus

Frantically, I shot out of bed. My stomach was in knots, as it often was during those first few months of motherhood. My imagination on overdrive, I braced for the worst. I bent over my newborn’s crib and placed my hand on her chest. With a sigh of relief, I watched it move up and down.

Earlier that day, my infant daughter had received yet another round of what felt like endless vaccinations. I was an anxious, postpartum mess. I bawled each time the doctor poked her squishy thigh.

I turned to Google to help me digest the vaccine alphabet soup. (And here I’d thought MMR was just a radio station). DtAP. Hib. RV. PVC. VAR. HepA. I cluelessly and feverishly “researched” my way through a glut of articles about the ingredients going into my newborn’s fragile body. I zeroed in on the grimmest statistics and thought: What if the antivaxxers are right?

Our pediatrician talked me down off the ledge by explaining in plain language how the risks were small and the benefits huge. Exhausted, I agreed and allowed my baby to be vaccinated. I lost a few nights’ sleep waiting for the worst to happen, but she was perfectly fine. Years later, I vaccinated my second newborn with fewer concerns and calmer nerves.