Fear of Poop Itself
There are dark blue towels all over the floor in our living room.
I have them down around Spencer's play area in case we have repeat performance of yesterday.
He just sucked down a little formula and burped. I'm scared.
I have post-traumatic-barf-syndrome.
Earlier today he got the hiccups and I thought he might be heaving, so I carried him into the bathroom and held him over the sink in case he was going to throw up again. Nothing happened. I think he giggled a little.
I wish I could dress him in a plastic outfit.
Cleaning up poop is the most bizarre task ever.
How can you really CLEAN it? I mean, it's like the filthiest filth ever.
He's sitting next to me on the floor dragging his bottle of formula around. I wish he'd drink it.
We have another bottle of Pedialyte here too. I can't say we're overly-impressed with their choice of flavors. There has to be something more appealing to a little one. He doesn't drink OK or grape juice yet, so why would something flavored that way be of any interest?
How about Banana flavor?
Friday, January 14, 2005
Illin' In Philly
Yo Yo Yo. Mom in da house...
Uh, all month long. I can't get out.
If it's not the boy, it's me.
He started off 2005 with an ear infection, I acquired strep throat last week, and now he's contracted some sort of stomach thing that's made him expunge every last drop of everything from both ends. Pleasant, huh? I'm drinking tons of water now, just in case it happens to me too.
During my time of respite, protected by the poofy, synthetic-y feel of a faux down comforter (purchased no doubt from Kmart or some other purveyor of fine home furnishings), I managed to watch almost all of Live Aid and found solace in cherry jello and hominy grits.
Apparently, when you recover from illness, the gods of mockery send down another for you to dodge by putting it in your child. So we're back on major doses of hand sanitizer and then following up later on in the evening with A&D ointment on the hands to soothe the cracking skin on the knuckles.
I feel like a boxer.
"Down goes Fraser!!!"
Yo Yo Yo. Mom in da house...
Uh, all month long. I can't get out.
If it's not the boy, it's me.
He started off 2005 with an ear infection, I acquired strep throat last week, and now he's contracted some sort of stomach thing that's made him expunge every last drop of everything from both ends. Pleasant, huh? I'm drinking tons of water now, just in case it happens to me too.
During my time of respite, protected by the poofy, synthetic-y feel of a faux down comforter (purchased no doubt from Kmart or some other purveyor of fine home furnishings), I managed to watch almost all of Live Aid and found solace in cherry jello and hominy grits.
Apparently, when you recover from illness, the gods of mockery send down another for you to dodge by putting it in your child. So we're back on major doses of hand sanitizer and then following up later on in the evening with A&D ointment on the hands to soothe the cracking skin on the knuckles.
I feel like a boxer.
"Down goes Fraser!!!"