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Surprise

Daycares are cesspools of disease.


That's what a coworker said to me after my baby boy had fallen ill at school for what seemed like the 100th time. I think I've coped pretty well with sleep deprivation and breastfeeding (minus the incident where we got kicked out of the restaurant...but I'm not getting into that right now...) and the first signs of extreme stubbornness—courtesy of his Dutch ancestry.

But watching my child struggle to breathe, fighting pneumonia, or holding his head as he suffers dry heaves or rocking him as he rests his head on my shoulder and moans softly...it just rips my heart out. And it makes me secretly despise all those other germy little rugrats who infect my little one by touching him with their snottiness and bacteria. I know, he's probably as much to blame as they are, but my brain refuses to believe it. Nothing that vile and disgusting could come from my beautiful boy.

Of course, there's one member of our household who learned firsthand the wrath of childhood illness.

Yesterday, as we were getting H ready for school, all dressed in his clean clothes and smelling of sweet baby lotion, he coughed, gagged, and up came the breakfast. Projectile. All over the floor, all over the bed, all over himself as I rushed him to the bathroom.

And in the process...
All over the cat.

Comments

Brianne said…
Awww poor Dolce! Y'know, a theme song for Henry came to mind from reading that post: Beautiful Boy by John Lennon. Anyways, just thought you'd like to know and thought you'd think it fit. :)
9:25 PM
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