Baby P. is home sick today. He's been feeling puny for a few days, coughing like a smoker. I tried to take him to day care anyway, because I wanted to make banana bread, but when his 'teacher' took him from my arms and discovered that she could feel him wheezing through her fingertips, she said he couldn't stay. "Baby P," I crooned, rubbing his fat cheek with my thumb as she held him, "how's it feel to be rejected from day care, when you're the son of two overachieving doctors?" The staff laughed nervously.
I called his mother, who was in the midst of removing someone's uterus through their vagina. (OK, I'm not sure what surgery she was performing, but that is the one that grosses me out the most. If it is possible to remove a uterus through a vagina, there is more potential for horror in this world than I knew. Back me up here, sisters.) I told her the scoop, and we agreed that a visit to the germ factory known as the pediatrician's office was probably prudent. I assured her, via her med student who was acting as go-between since E. had her instruments up someone's hoo-ha, that I wouldn't mention the fact that she'd dropped the baby on his head this morning unless the pediatron specifically asked.
As one who has suffered from bronchitis throughout my asthmatic, smoke-infested life, I'm pretty sure that's what the baby has. I feel for him. I think he may be suffering from an illness that was intended for me, because smokers who quit usually get bronchitis or a chest cold as their alveoli telegraph one another to carpe diem and they begin working frantically to expel accumulated tar. So while Baby P is coughing up 15 years worth of my accumulated tar, and making a terrible and piteous racket while he's at it, I haven't coughed once in the past 5 weeks, excluding the other night when Jon Stewart said something funny while I was pouring Diet Coke down my throat. (Pause while I look out the window and think about how much I love Jon Stewart. A lot.)
Meanwhile, the bananas are totally rotting on the counter top. I was going to give him a taste, too.
Lo siento, Baby P.
Fact of the day: did you know that very curly eyelashes and creases under the eye are associated with childhood asthma?
I'm feeling very guilty because the people who were supposed to start watching Baby P when I leave on Friday have backed out. Now, E. has to rush to find someone and I am obsessing over who it will be. How will some stranger know how to take care of him? He's a very finicky baby, who needs things to be done a certain way. For the life of me, I can't imagine a person who's not related to us that will do the job correctly.
I'm like five minutes away from sympathetically lactating.