Nothing like a little norovirus or rotovirus, or whatever
the hell it was, to get those last pesky little prego- pounds gone.
I’ll spare you the gory details, but the hubbers and I have
decided that our LO is either super tough, or he didn’t get hit as hard with
this nasty stomach flu as we did. He was
sick on Sunday. Of course we knew
something was awry as he doesn’t usually upchuck entire bottles worth of food,
but he didn’t seem to be in terrible spirits.
When the second bottle of the day came pouring out of all orifices, nose
included (I had to give you some gory
details), we called Z’s doc. to see if we needed to take any special
precautions.
Wait, who am I kidding?
I called the doc. after throw-up episode number 1, he just didn’t get my
message until late in the day due to cell phone malfunction. Harumph. Suspect.
Anyhow, we went about our Sunday as planned, and Z seemed to
be holding up just fine, playing and smiling as usual. By Monday, he was pretty much back to his
usual self, keeping food down and having solid poops. Yes, I said poop. It’s amazing how much attention you pay to
your baby’s poo. Or, it could be that
the hubs and I might have a heightened fascination with the stuff as we find
ourselves carefully examining the contents of LO’s diapers on a fairly regular
basis. Said contents then evoke several
minutes worth of discussion. Ahhh, the
sweet romance of it all.
In contrast to my son’s ever-so-pleasant reaction to the
nasties, I thought death might be a welcome relief from the violent nausea,
puke, and dry heaves I was experiencing.
OMG- I just can’t stay away
from the gory details, and besides, I love all of the euphemisms for the word
vomit. I was literally writhing on the
bathroom floor, and when D got home, I did not hesitate to share my misery.
Thank GOD I suddenly got sick when our sitter was here- I
was actually supposed to go to the gym.
Although I never would have had her over when I thought a virus was in
the house, she was here anyway, and it would’ve been very interesting writhing
on the bathroom floor, praying to the porcelain gods, while taking care of
baby. As the hubs had a later onset of
the illness, he was able to come home from work early and relieve our sitter,
put LO to bed, run to the store and by some pepto-bismol (which he preemptively
took), and toss an extra quilt on the bed for me as I was suffering from
hot/cold shivers. All the while, (in
case you forgot), I’m dry heaving and moaning loudly.
If my baby son felt anything like I did, I cannot believe we
didn’t hear more about it. This experience
has seriously made me question my pain tolerance. I did, after all, plan a natural birth, and
upon arriving at the hospital scream like a banchee for an epidural. Perhaps that’s neither here nor there, but
still.
Hubs got sick, too, though his symptoms weren’t quite as
intense. He didn’t throw up, but his
other end wasn’t too happy. I bet he’ll
love that I just shared intimate details about his “other end” on a public
website. To make it fair, neither of my ends were doin’ too well on Monday.
Again, we were both thanking our lucky stars that Z slept
all the way through the night on Monday.
There is no real moral to this story other than the fact
that I think we seriously lucked out in the temperament department with our
child. *I’m saying a silent prayer that
I don’t eat my words some day. We can
also count our lucky stars that while the illness was violent, it was very
short lived, and here we all are, happy and healthy once more.
Wash your hands lots this season! There.
That’s the moral.
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