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Our pediatrician’s office is kind of awesome in that it’s open on the weekends, they run a useful website, and there’s a nurse advice line that’s even available after hours. I remember calling that number in the wee hours of the night a few days after Riley was born, in a full panic over his, um, penis. His circ ring, to be specific, and all I’ll say about that is 1) I was dumb, and 2) whoever I spoke with was very patient and kind.

I called the nurse line yesterday just to put my mind at ease about Dylan, thinking they would surely tell me that a barfing baby is no big deal and as long as he was hydrated everything was fine, but she interrupted me mid-sentence and said we needed to come in RIGHT AWAY. At which point I felt horrible for my tra-la-la explanation of his horking, when obviously I should have been weeping and garment-rending and possibly dialing 911 instead.

Of course, after bundling both kids off to the pediatrician’s office (and spending a very uncomfortable 20 minutes or so in the waiting room next to a sweet but slightly worrisome mentally handicapped fellow who was downright enchanted by Dylan and kept inching his wheelchair closer and closer until it was resting on my purse strap and I performed an awkward, flame-faced exit after they finally called us in and I tried to stand up with baby, toddler, and purse in tow but — YOINK! — was nearly pulled back down onto the floor by the man’s chair), the doctor swept in, peered in all of Dylan’s orifices, palpated his puppyfat belly, and declared him the not-so-proud owner of “some kind of stomach bug”.

Which, okay, I know that sort of thing is in fact sometimes the most accurate answer there is, and I’m grateful for it not being Unfathomably Worse, but this is almost always my experience with doctors: that it’s the rare pain or illness that can actually be treated with something other than time. So many medical advancements, and yet the most common ailments remain impervious to pharmaceutical intervention. They tell you to drink fluids and send you on your way, without even handing out a consolation prescription, like maybe a nice temporary pick-me-up from the benzodiazepine family.

Anyway, Dylan seems to be doing better, although I’m still playing it safe with Pedialyte and oatmeal, because unfortunately I know from personal experience that if that particular mixture comes back up, at least it’s a carpet-matching beige.

Portrait of round-bellied, carpet-staining child, whose Native American name is He-Who-Grabs-His-Junk:

In other news, JB and Riley are in Oregon for the weekend. Every November JB goes elk hunting in Coos Bay, and while I didn’t want to accompany him this time — the drive is so long, and we’ll be heading down there for Thanksgiving — it seemed like a good chance for Riley to hang out with his grandparents, so the boys left town on Thursday night. I miss them both very badly, but I kind of doubt Riley’s pining away for me:

Apparently Grandpa is buddies with the local fire chief, who gave Riley a spin around town in an actual no-shit fire engine.

No, of course I don’t feel bad about missing such good times, this was a very good decision to stay home on my own with a sick baby, I DON’T FEEL STUPID AT ALL.

Ahem. So, assuming anyone’s reading this, what are you up to this weekend? Got any suggestions for what *I* should be doing, bearing in mind that my constant companion is 9 months old and a currently little unpredictable in the food-staying-in-the-stomach department?

I’ve just cleaned up my first barf of the day, fiftieth barf of the last few days. Dylan’s got some kind of stomach bug that’s been making the rounds at daycare, and while his spirits seem fairly high, I am ready to take my ball and GO HOME.

I don’t know why I’m such a wimp about parenting sick children, especially when you consider the fact that our family has been phenomenally lucky in that no one has had to deal with any serious illnesses — just your run-of-the-mill viruses and whatnot — but I always work myself up into such a state of anxiety about the whole thing. I run off to google things that I KNOW will return horrifying results, then I read things like BABIES CAN BECOME DANGEROUSLY DEHYDRATED IN A MATTER OF HOURS and I start plotting the fastest route to the emergency room, because never mind that gummy grin and fat diaper, he’s CLEARLY ON THE BRINK OF DEADLY INTRAVASCULAR WATER LOSS.

The frantic, stupid side of my brain reacts with total panic and a pervasive feeling of overblown doom, my few remaining normal parenting instincts feel sorry for my ailing child and wish I could make him feel better, and a shameful part of me feels whiny and inconvenienced and tired of doing laundry. It’s this giant mixture of tension and unhappiness and woe — a Stress Granola! – and I’m not even the sick one. So lame.

Most of all, I feel entirely incompetent and at a loss for what to do. If a barfy baby is still mostly good-humored and constantly willing to eat (even if he horks it up afterwards) and there’s no fever and he’s sucking down the Pedialyte, is there any point in taking him to the doctor? Why don’t kindly pediatricians make house calls any more? Why haven’t I brushed my teeth yet today? SO MANY QUESTIONS.

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