They sounded like bleating lambs, crying over and over again from places we couldn’t see.

Occasionally, we’d hear an outright shriek, followed immediately by the soothing tones of a grown-up (A parent? The nurse?) trying to reassure the terrified child that somehow, in some way, this torture would be worthwhile.

Yes, Tuesday was L’s second trip to the immunization clinic, and it certainly was more eventful than round No. 1.

This more recent visit began with a smile. After a 45-minute wait (they were backed up with families seeking flu vaccines, apparently), Nurse Dian ushered us into our private room and managed to get L laughing with a combination of squeaky voice and dangly nametag.

It was mostly downhill from there. L downed her first immunization (a purple, grape-tasting liquid), but screamed successively louder for each of the three injections that followed. At one point, the poor thing cried so hard I honestly thought she was going to choke on her own little tongue.

In the end, she managed to endure all four of the vaccinations, and was asleep no more than five minutes after the fact.

Perhaps more miraculously, I didn’t even break a sweat.

Some history: Generally speaking, I’m a spaz when the baby is any sort of discomfort—such a spaz that I usually start sweating uncontrollably when I feel she’s threatened. During the first first visit to the clinic, we emerged from the little vaccination room and it looked like I’d gone swimming. This time, however, I kept my cool. Completely.

The secret was simply focusing on L. I didn’t look at the needles. I didn’t watch Nurse Dian put them in. I didn’t even ask if the nurse was finished.

Instead I gently used my forearms to pin the baby to the table and stroked her hair calmly as the nurse went about her thing. As soon as the baby started wailing, I shushed like a champion, reminding her that Kaiser Permanente’s take on Abu Ghraib would be over soon.

Don’t get me wrong, folks—I’m not taking any credit whatsoever for the baby’s quick recovery from this afternoon’s trauma.

I am, however, patting myself on the back for my ability to keep it together and, um, stay dry. If I can manage my emotions during a round of vaccinations, mastering the emotional ups and downs of onesie-changing has got to be next.