Party Time!

You are cordially invited to a pity party. Yours truly is both host and guest of honor.

My mother always said that it's ok to throw oneself a pity party, so long as you admit that's what you're doing. Well, that's what I'm doing these days, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm throwing an indulgent little bash for my woeful little self. Seeing as misery truly does enjoy company, I'm contemplating sendng out engraved invitations. RSVP Regrets only.

Bug is a "refluxer". I might have mentioned this in a previous post, but as I have seemed to blot most of the month of January out of my memory, I do not remember. Gastroesophageal reflux is the pits, the absolute pits. He screams in pain after eating or if he's been lying flat on his back too long. We give him baby Zantac syrup twice a day. We raised up his crib mattress on an angle. We try to keep him as upright as possible all day. He spends a lot of time in his bouncy seat (best money I ever spent) or on my shoulder.

At his four month appointment this past week, we learned he's only in the 5th percentile for weight. I just about sank through the floor. Driving home I felt so low, the lowest yet, and completely helpless. We've been nursing every two hours during the day, every two to three hours at night. He's been producing the requisite 8-10+ dirty diapers daily. But he's not putting on weight. People mistake him for younger than he is. Older women, mothers my mom's age raise an eyebrow when they ask and I tell him how much he weighs. "How old his he now?" they ask again.

Per our pediatrician's request, I dutifully brought a little sample in a bright orange plastic bag marked "Biohazard" to the lab for RBC and CBC testing. Sitting at the check-in desk, I watched the little blob of poop slide down the side of the specimen container as it rolled on its side in the biohazard bag.

When you're a mom, you end up having to do things you never imagined. Like scrape poo out of a diaper with wooden tongue depressor sticks and put it in a plastic container. Since I am not yet inured to the embarrassment of being seen in public carrying a container of poo, I stuffed it in a small blue Gap bag before I left the house.

It has been suggested by a few, even folks who read this blog, that Bug might be lactose intolerant. Well that is now the pediatrician's suspicion too. The poo should tell us. We should know something next week.

Meanwhile back at the ranch - as I was transporting the all important poo to the lab, my mother was home trying to comfort a feverish and fussy Bug. He'd had his four month vaccines the day before and spiked a fever of 101 overnight. My feelings of ineptitude reached a new crescendo at three a.m. when I realized I didn't have any infant Tylenol in the house. Dumb, dumb, dumb. I am Flunkie, the dummy mummy. Bug's grandma rode in to the rescue a few hours later with a bottle of the grape-flavored stuff. Point four milliliters and twenty minutes later, Bug calmed a bit and almost napped. Almost.

It's Sunday. The fever broke late Friday night. He finally took some naps again on Saturday. Last night he slept a four hour stretch before waking up every one and a half to two hours to nurse. But we got some sleep. As I type he is cuddled up with his dad and sleeping peacefully. My sweet little boy, it's been such a tough couple days for him - and us.

He officially turns four months old next week. Not that I want to rush him, and I feel guilty for even saying it, but boy I'll be glad when he gets a bit older, can sit up, and starts to wean...

There, I said it.