Almost.

Just when we thought we could name the boy "healed," the phone rang.

Or rather, Dave instant messaged me. "Boy has a rash. I'll meet you at Allison's." I was at work. The third day out of the last eight that I had actually made it into work. I dutifully shut down my computer and hurried out of the building.

By the time I got there, Dave was rocking the boy and he informed me we had a doctor's appointment in 15 minutes. Spence seemed slightly subdued. (Come on, you love that every word in that sentence started with an 's.')

Team Snyder arrived at the Children's Clinic without actually laying an eye on the rash. Dave checked in and I tried to sneak a peak at the rash. I couldn't really see anything. My anxiety started to bubble up as I feared that we had morphed into over-anxious parents. Was there even a rash?

By the time we entered into the exam room, I was convinced it was fine and more focused on not looking like an idiot in front of our beloved Dr. Goel. I undressed Spence. I flitted between wanting to see bright red splotches to justify our third visit to the doctor and hoping his skin was pasty as ever. Small pink spots were visible...almost like an impressionist's rosebud smudges. Perhaps not enough to warrant a trek to the clinic.

Dr. Goel smiled, wrote a note that allowed us to return to daycare and we were on our way. Spence snoozed all the way home.

Flu Watch: Day 6

Spence is still sick.

(I would like to say that accounts for my 18 voicemail messages piling up on my cell phone, but we all know that is not really the case...)

Dave and I wake up every morning full of hope that Spence is on the mend. We chatter back and forth that we think that he's "over the hump" or "turning the corner." We even flirt with the idea that he'll eat some solid food in the afternoon. Which letter of the BRAT diet will we start with? Toast? Bananas? Spence will nurse a little. Then comes the vomit baptism. And we're back to Pedialyte, one minute nursing sessions and repeated calls to the advice nurse, who assures us these stomach bugs can last 7 to 10 days. Our optimism fades completely. We are deflated. It feels like we are failing him.

Vomity

Do you count vomit by the actual times you heave?
Or do you count it by the number of times vomit spills onto your clothes?

If you count per heave, then Spence vomited 8 times before 10 a.m.
If you are a vomity clothes person, then I changed three times (complete with underwear) before 10 a.m.

More...much more followed all throughout the day.

Spence was really, really sick today. Dark circles colored under his eyes. The copious vomit. (It is now 8:09 p.m. and I did change four times today.) But, he started to show his personality in times of trial. And let's just say he takes after me.

He denies that he is sick. He vomits, but no whining, no listlessness. Constant desires to get up and move. Lots of happy screams. Giggles and demands for milk, followed by more vomit. I resorted to feeding the boy Pedialyte by the spoon. He bubbled up with anger as if to say, "Damn woman, go get me some sweet potato fries!"

It's hard finding the humor in a terrible, no good, very bad day.

Stomach Flu Spence

Scratch that last entry.
It wasn't the rocks. It is the stomach flu.
He's still giggly and now has vomited a few more times on mama and once on dad.
At least every member of Team Snyder has been vomited on so far in 2008.

Spewing Spencer

There was a Spencer who swallowed round rocks,
I don't know why he swallowed those rocks.
I guess he'll...

projectile vomit all over his mama.

I should have known that I could not escape 2007 without being vomited on.

In a bizarre and irrational twist, I blame Anastasia. She nudged me to give the boy some raisins. Soft candy rocks. He gobbled them up like his dad does expensive dark chocolate truffles. Suddenly, visions of raisins danced in his head. Whereas before he would have cruised by the random piece of trash on the floor, he now does the raisin roulette with all found objects. This time he lost.

But, the two round rocks that he apparently categorized as "raisin" had not yet been discovered in the rivers of vomit that drenched me, the bed and the floor. (The boy was mostly unscathed.) I just watched in complete terror as my child had morphed in to a vomiting Garbage Pail Kid. I shrieked for Dave.

He came running.

We were not at home, but in a odd hexagon-shaped cabin apparently owned by fundamentalist Christians. Most of the other rooms in this home were normal. The room that our friends stuck us in was distinctly not. There was a large stained glass window of a cross and crown commemorating a guy who died in World War I. This was flanked by a tacky 'painting' of Jesus surrounded by lambs on one side of the window and three different versions of the Bible on the other. Ha, ha. Stick the religiously confused interfaith family in the Christian room for New Years. Watch the hijinx ensue.

So when Dave found us, the rosy light from the Christian soldier gravestone window was illuminating the vomit. I was near tears as Dave assessed the situation. Spencer was now giggling and babbling to his "Dada." Just like his Mama, the post-vomit feeling is usually a serene relief. Dave dragged us into the bathroom.

He found a towel and started to wipe the chunks of vomit off me. I howled at him and told him to stay focused on the (clean) boy. Spence cooed. I grabbed the thermometer and the Vaseline and got a reading. No fever. Spence commenced his favorite pastime...pulling himself up. More snickers from the boy.

He's fine. It has taken me three days to finally catch my breath.

Sucking Snot

At around 2 a.m. this morning, Spence moved from "getting sick" to "sick." It was definitive. There was no longer just the illusion of a runny nose. It was there. You could hear it bubbling up near his brain. He wasn't run to the ER sick. Not fever sick. Really, just snotty sick. But at six and a half months, his body had let him down.

In a surprise move, Dave and I remained calm. Dave did not chant "ER" even once. We just pressed number 3 on the phone and hooked up with Bobbie, our advice nurse. She described in detail how to use the pale blue snot sucker and suggested that we get some saline drops.

Bobbie did not, however, mention that using the pale blue snot sucker would be the baby equivalent to Dick Cheney's version of not-torture. His sixth sense kicked in as the knobby device came into view. His screams paralyzed me, rendering me impotent. Dave looked on helplessly. He attempted to rally, but in the end was only able to extract a pin sized wisp of snot. The brook of snot babbled on.

But once again Google and Anastasia saved the day. Over gtalk, Anastasia sagely adviced another device that could divert the course of snot.

My mouth.

Tonight, I walk down my precarious stairs a different woman.
A mama that sucks snot from the nose of her babe.
A wife armed with the best comeback of them all, "Not only did I birth him, but I sucked snot from his nose. With my mouth. It's your turn to rock him back to sleep."