After another night of oh so little sleep, I made the executive decision on Saturday that the little one needed to see a doctor.
We call and of course he'll see her.
Have I told you that I chose the best Doctor ever?
We go and I told the admitting nurse that I was hoping that they would find something wrong with her.
How awful is that, people?
But twas true.
They check everything - her throat, her lungs, her ears, her eyes, her body...
At which point the Doc tells me he wants to put a urine bag on her for a sample and he wants to take some blood.
We do both, all the while I should mention, Little Miss Itty Bitty is tired, cranky, and kinda impossible. I mean, usually she watches the doctor and pulls on him and smiles at him, but this time? Not gonna happen. Crying galore is on the menu, folks and she hates to disappoint.
After a while, we get some urine, and the tests show nothing wrong there.
They take the blood, and might I add that they are way more proficient in doing so than the lab tech who did her nine month blood work. Jeepers creepers, man, learn to take blood from babies.
The blood shows that she is fighting a virus.
Yup, no symptoms, but a virus indeed.
No wonder she was not sleeping and was fussy and the works.
We are told to do the benadryl/tylenol regimen and that if any symptoms develop, to call him day or night and let him take some of the responsibility for making her well.
What a nice Doctor.
We comply and things have been better. Sleep was achieved and a happy baby has emerged.
Thank goodness for that.
Yesterday LMIB crawled into our closet and grabbed my running shoe to gnaw on the laces (or whichever part she could get in her mouth) and Rocket Man declared that THAT IS WHY SHE HAS A VIRUS.
That must be it.
May I include that the WOMAN, SO WHY DON'T YOU KEEP HER FROM DOING IT part of that declaration was left off, but clearly received.
To which I would just like to respond:
Let's see you try, Mister.
I mean, this is the man who used to escape the house with his brother when they were children and run down to the goose-poop infested pond and "swim". We all know that they ingested some of the water. And most likely they put it in their mouths and spit it at one another amongst other things that brothers do to one another while swimming.
This goose-poop pond? The water would turn their little white undies a fine shade of black.
Oh, yes, but keep the running shoes away!
I mean, when she goes to the playground and comes home with feet that look like this:
Really, what's the point?