I got an email from our infant development worker the other day. We haven't been to playgroup since April.
"April? Are you sure?"
"Yes, April."
Huh. You don't say....
Little Man is feisty, but his immune system is not. He's constantly getting coughs, chest infections, ear infections, or mild colds. Usually the latter. But in a room full of children with compromised immune systems, the common cold is too much of a threat.
So we haven't been. Now, that's not to say that he's been ill for four months straight. Quite the contrary; he's only had one ear infection, one dose of antibiotics for bronchitis, and had only a handful of trips to the family doctor. Wow, that sounds terrible... but for Little Man, it's par for the course.
It's just that playgroups are held once a week, and when Monday mornings roll around and it's time to take him, he's either just getting over or just coming down with a cold. So we haven't been since April.
Last week it was some type of virus. Fever of 103. Futile trip to the family doctor where we got the usual speech to "wait and see and bring him back in three or four days if he gets worse". I don't really know what I think the doctor will do when I bring in my sick baby after only four days of being ill. I always feel guilty for wasting the doctor's time, but then I'm not an otolaryngologist, and I can't tell if he's got a common cold or another ear infection.
Last night he was feeling better, so we went out for dinner with sister in law and her new husband. Little Man was feeling better, so of course, he was a terror in his high chair. Please note that any restaurant that requires more than five minutes to prepare food should be avoided like the plague until your toddler is old enough to understand logic and reason. Which usually happens when they turn 25 years old.
Anyways, he finally quieted down, and his kids meal included a free ice-cream as dessert. The waiter (who, judging by his sparse facial hair, the poor placement of the steak knife on the table, and loud announcement that there was ice cream on its way) obviously did not have children of his own. So even though Little Man projectile vomits in response to eating dairy, I thought a bite or two wouldn't do him any harm.
We ordered a thimble-full of ice cream, and of course the waiter, wanting to get on the good side of our toddler who OBVIOUSLY would be the one calculating his tip, presenting our pint-sized son with a pint-sized serving of ice cream. NOT COOL.
We let him have a few bites before carrying him kicking and screaming out of the restaurant. When he didn't barf in the car we thought maybe he was outgrowing his projectile vomits.
When I nervously offered him his soy milk before bed, I watched and waited, surrounding him with old towels in case the puking began. But nothing happened. So I patted myself on the back for allowing him his little indulgence, and carried him off to bed.
I don't know what triggers it. Perhaps the realization that he'll be confined to his room for the next nine hours. Perhaps it's boredom. Perhaps he really wanted a bath. I don't know why, but all of a sudden the retching began.
I wish there was a nice way to describe a vomit session, but there isn't. So I won't offend you with the details. Suffice it to say that I got hosed (literally and figuratively). Little Man got a bath, I had a shower, and I got to stay up til 3am doing load upon load of laundry so I wouldn't return home from work today to a house smelling like a truck stop.
I love my Little Man, but I want to go back to that restaurant, find the waiter from last night, find the steak knife he put within three inches of my son and just..... sit down to a nice, uninterrupted dinner. Only this time, hold the ice cream. I've had enough dessert.
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