I took the kids up to Whidbey Island for the weekend to give Kevin a weekend off. And by “off,” I mean to install hardwood floors in the master bedroom.
He really deserves another day off, don’t you think?
I was debating about whether to go to the island at all because Rocco had had diarrhea for four straight days, but you know. Hardwood floors. He managed to hold it in on the two hour drive, but as soon as we got to the cabin his bowels let loose. They let loose three times, as a matter of fact, and then they let loose again. He stopped being the cranky, ornery baby I had dealt with all week and became a lethargic, floppy baby who let me hold him.
I decided to call a doctor.
The problem here is that our cabin is about 800 meters from cell phone range, and of course there’s a lot of waiting involved with doctors and all, so I spent an hour pacing back and forth and talking on the phone a half mile from the cabin. Then another hour waiting for the call back.
They wanted him to go to the ER to have his electrolytes tested. We spent two hours in the little room trying to coax Rocco into drinking a few teaspoons of water and stop him from pressing the nurse-call “BUT-UN! BUT-UN! BUT-UN!” Only Grammy and I seemed to understand the importance of those few teaspoons because the alternative for Rocco was an IV. Rocco only seemed concerned with touching every possible surface in the ER room and then rubbing his eyes.
The low point came when he pooped. It was the same runny, mustardy, foul stuff he’d been spurting out for days. I was allowed only a momentary self-righteous moment of, “See? My baby’s really, really sick!” before I was instructed to scoop some of that poop into a little cup.
This poo sample was set on the metal tray along with a few other items. We pointed them all out to Rocco, like in the Sesame Street when they sing, “One of these kids is doing his own thing…”:
apple juice, Otter Pop, water bottle, poop
In the end they decided he was fine and we could go home. He woke up the next morning hungry and thirsty for the first time in days, and he was back to his chatty, busy, opinionated, do-it-myself self. My aunt who doesn’t see him much said, “Ohhhh, this is what Rocco is normally like.” She felt we were making an awfully big fuss the day before for what seemed like a normal baby to her.
“Normal” Rocco does a lot of things. Cuddling is not one of them.
WHAT’S COOKIN’ 2NITE:
Taking kids out; leaving sore, battered husband at home