My Muffin and I are sick. Poor us.
She’s got some sort of nasty flu thing, and I’ve got a cold. I just know it’s a matter of time before we infect each other. My sweet and easygoing darling just lies there and moans – much the way I do when I’m feeling all sorry for myself – and there are none of the delightful smiles I’m used to. She even ignored Leo this morning when he walked by.
We went to the pediatric walk-in clinic last night because I was concerned she was getting dehydrated, and the doctor said to just keep pumping pedialyte into her, one teaspoon at a time. The challenge with that is to get even one teaspoon into her. She wants NOTHING to do with it. But she’s either terribly hungry or thirsty, and cries for the bottle, but then whatever she drinks comes right back up.
I’m feeling pretty lousy myself (fever and congested all night), but with this job, you don’t get sick days.
This is what I get to look at – and listen to – today:
She’s already lost a bunch of weight. You can see how her waist is shrunken. I’m still trying to do naked time to address that brutal diaper rash. That is risky business, because there are all sorts of ways she is making messes these days.
Damn Facebook. Status updates are always running through my mind:
Angie feels sorry for her baby.
Angie feels sorry for herself.
Angie wishes she could sleep.
Angie wishes the crying would stop.
Angie is worried about the Muffin.
Angie is stumped about what to make for dinner.
Angie wants to take a nap.
Angie can’t breathe properly.
Angie wants to go hide in bed and not get up until she feels better.
Angie and Aili are in a pissy mood.
Angie is tired of dog hair.
Angie has had better days.