Taking baby to the doctor (for spits and giggles)
For several days my 3-month-old had been channeling his 3-week-old self, in that he re-developed a startling habit of randomly hosing down his entire body and any nearby furniture/parents/passing cats with the contents of his stomach. I had informed him that I thought we were past all that infantile behavior and that he was a GREAT BIG BOY now, RIGHT, I mean have we not moved up to the 3-6 month sized feetie pajamas, HMMM? -- but instead of listening he just jammed his fingers in his mouth, because hey, if he's not barfing for no apparent reason, that means he's got time to dramatically gag himself, right? Let's see just what that washing machine's capable of.
He had no other symptoms of illness: he'd been eating just fine, sleeping as normal, and whenever he's not trying to set the house on fire with his brain he's generally doing a whole lot of gummy-mouthed smiling, but I finally dragged him (literally: my god, that carseat weighs a TON) into the pediatrician's office on Monday just to make sure everything was okay.
Once we were situated in the exam room, I put him on the table where he instantly acted as though I had dipped him in Zoloft, or maybe tequila. The squirming! The joyous squealing! The meaty, hysterical giggles! It was like he'd been waiting his whole newbornhood for the luxurious experience of lying face-up on a paper-covered table. I have never seen him so filled with joie de vivre, and I wondered where I might be able to purchase a Baby's First Medical Equipment™ Paper Exam Table of my very own.
The nurse took one look at my hilarity-filled baby -- his rosy cheeks glowing, his pudgy thighs kicking -- and then peered over her glasses back at me. "So he's doing some spitting up, then?" she asked, and I could actually see her picturing the home situation that propelled me (clearly a bug-eyed, medical-website-surfing mom) to the doctor's office: the teaspoon of milk he produced after a hefty post-meal burp, the panicked call I made to 911 as a result.Anyway, after I finally managed to convince the nurse and the pediatrician that I know what in hell a spitup looks like and that it doesn't usually require cleaning the child with a Wet-Vac afterwards, no one seemed to think there's much of anything wrong with Dylan -- maybe just a mild stomach bug combined with a sensitive gag reflex. "Come back if things don't improve in a few days," the doctor said, all but patting me on the back as I lurched back out the door with the carseat.
Of course Sir Barfs-a-Lot has stopped with the mighty milk-spews, much like how your computer magically starts working again as soon as you call tech support. Not that I'm not extremely grateful for this less-messy state of affairs (as long as I keep his fingers out of his mouth, that is -- can someone remind me when the Accidental Bulimia Stage ends?) but jeez, talk about feeling like a moron. It's like I took my baby in for farting, or something. "Oh, doctor -- it's like there's a trumpet up his rear end . . . is there?"
Truthfully, though, I'm not too worried about looking like a chump in front of the pediatrician, because who doesn't believe in the Better Safe Than Sorry rule? I'm sure they've heard it all, too. Have you ever taken your kid in for something that turned out to be, you know, nothing much?
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