Nov
15
I had just given Dylan a bath earlier tonight and dressed him in his pajamas and I set him down for one minute while I got into my sweatpants and he barfed an enormous Lake Eerie of creamed corn all over himself.
I got him cleaned up and ready for bed — he’d been spending the better part of an hour yawning and rubbing his eyes — and as soon as I got him situated in his crib with the lights off and the white noise machine on he started screaming. And screaming. I went in, I came out, I went in. He finally quieted but I am watching him on the monitor and he’s got that gritchy sort of unrestful look to him that tells me there will be more screaming to come, OH YES THERE WILL.
This, after an entire night of going in every two hours to see what in HELL his problem was, even bringing him to bed with me at one point (where he thrashed, howled, and kicked me like a jackrabbit); after a full day of being unable to put him down without loud complaints. I’m tired and cranky and this isn’t the entry I planned on writing but, well, here is the open text document, here is what my fingers are typing.
We had good moments today — a stroller-walk around the neighborhood, a leisurely browse through a church holiday bazaar — but man, it’s hard doing this by myself. It’s unexpectedly hard not to have a chattering toddler nearby, as chaotic and frustrating as that can be; it’s hard not having JB around. I’m lonely and there’s no one to complain to.
Well, except you. Aren’t you lucky?
So! Let’s talk about something cheery, okay? I need some ideas for homemade type holiday gifts that even craft-deficient dumbasses like myself can handle. Any suggestions?
Nov
14
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?
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