I always like when people used periods unnecessarily in the middle of written sentences like that to emphasize the stress placed on each word. In my head, I read them slowly and emphatically. So when you read the title of this post, do me a favor and pretend I'm saying it very. spaced. out. (Also, I'm not being sarcastic, I really do like it!)
Our morning started at 2:30AM when JJ began fussing in his room. Remember yesterday when I told you I sleep like the dead? My husband shakes me awake in the wee hours of the morning and hands me our naked baby. He said JJ threw up and is burning hot, covered in sweat, etc, etc... So he lays with me (while Kevin cleaned up the bedding, what a good man I have!) and I'm thinking, "He's not hot at all. What is Kevin's deal?" I take his temperature, perfect. He's not crying, not in pain, just sweaty.
My best estimation is that since we turned our heat on for a few days (it's been pretty chilly lately), I forgot how warm JJ's room gets and dressed him in his fleece pajamas, covered him in all his blankets and peaced out for the night. Poor kid probably got sick being, literally, TOO STINKIN' WARM!
My bad, son.
My bad, son.
A few hours later we were off to JJ's 2 year check-up. Awful. He's old enough to start comprehending what's going on around him. Flu shot? Terrible. Finger prick for a blood test? Terrible. Trying to keep the band-aids on? A pure battle, complete with kicking, screaming and dry-heaving.
Then they come back and tell me something is off with the blood test. It's probably something that was on his hands that influenced the results, but they have to send him over to the lab to make sure and we'll get those results in a couple days. Sounds easy. No problem.
Nope - we had to be admitted into the hospital before they would run the tests. Fill out the paperwork, go over insurance information - the works. And aren't hospital waiting areas just the worst? Anyway - we finally make our way back to the blood lab and I get to hold my son down while they drew blood from his arm. He was not having any of it. As soon as we were released, Mommy made sure our brave boy got a big ol' bag of fries.
At home, some of JJ's war wounds.
He let me take the band-aid off his leg, ripped the one off his finger hours ago - but refuses to let me touch his arm.