So my sweet friend, probably the only person who checks here minus grandparents who are contractually obligated, mentioned that she missed reading my blog.  What?  Someone misses new posts on this site?!!  Say no more!  Like a puppy who hears the words “go byebye”, that’s all I need to get me writing again.

Though I know a ton of witty stories have happened in the past few days . . . weeks . . months (quickly wiping the dust off with my shirt sleeve, hoping no one noticed), I can’t really think of any right now.  Because my bebe is sick.  JJ has been out with the stomach flu since Monday.   Today is Thursday.  That’s a looong time to be sipping water, and hurling, and licking a popsicle, and hurling, and biting a banana, and hurling.  So long that I didn’t even realize it was Thursday and that he’s been sick almost all week:  the gloriousness of the days just run together.

Hubby asked if I was going to call the doctor this morning, and mentally I thought, “Why?  So I can haul him down to a doctor’s office for all of us to get infected and have them tell me there’s nothing they can do, and by the by, the new germies we picked up in the waiting room are free”, but I said, “Uh, no, I don’t know what they could do.”  But then when the offer to have a popsicle for breakfast was refused, I picked up the cell right then and there.

“May I speak to a nurse?”

“Is this in regards to you?”

“Nope:  my son’s been throwing up since Monday.”

“Monday?!!”

“Well, Monday night.”

“We’d better get you an appointment!”

“Uh, I’d rather just talk to a nurse if that’s okay.”

“Oh . . . well, I guess I can send a note back.”

“It’s just that I’m not sure if I should bring him in or not and figured a nurse could tell me.”

“Yeah . . . ”

Just then and there, I was bequeathed the “La Crappola Madre of the Year” award.  No, I haven’t posted it up in my house yet:  I’m just revelling in its beauty.

Right now JJ’s hanging out in bed.  Awake.  My son.  Awake.  Lying there.  Not tied down.  Not threatened that if his toes so much as touch the ground that he will never get to play LegoTableStarWarsGames again.  My son has *never* done that willingly.  Yep, things are not looking so great.  The nurse, who talked to the not-Beloved-Dr.-Tami-doctor, who almost delivered JJ, since our Beloved Dr. Tami takes Thursdays off to polish her Rockin’ Mama of the Year award, said that I’m supposed to give him Pedialyte (which he won’t drink because he doesn’t like juice.  That’s my low-carb kid!) and then go on the B.R.A.T. diet (tasty) and then slowly reintroduce dairy.  So much for his request for “yogret” this morning (thank you Springfield Dairy which sponsors Sesame Street).

I just want my baby to keep some liquids down.  It’s a simple request, one that I often take for granted.  That, and to magically uninherit my & my father’s hurling genes - we’re olympic-worthy hurlers.  It’s just horrible seeing veins pop out of your baby’s neck as he grips on the toilet so his feet don’t come off the floor, cause I know what he’s feeling (and so does Granddaddy - ugh - the bulging eyeballs).

So, Michelle, that’s probably not what you wanted to read during your lunch hour.  But at least you’re getting a lunch hour!  And hopefully we’ll have some non-fluid-oriented stories to share soon.  Won’t that be lovely.

Daily Drivel, JJ Jawings