{ i'm not a doctor. i just play one in real life }

Turtle is sick. 


For the first time.


He's even on antibiotics (the yummy pink bubble gum kind).


It was bound to happen. After all, he's 23 months old. Prior to this, every runny nose, cough, diaper rash and horrifying case of the runs could be linked directly to teething. Yes, even the coughing.

So we count ourselves lucky that he's gone this far in excellent health.


The funny thing here is that I almost didn't catch it. After all, he's been acting fine. Maybe his appetite has been a little decreased and he's been taking some long naps, but that falls in line with growth spurts and teething for him, so it's nothing to really worry over.


He napped from 10:45 til 2:30 today. When I went up to retrieve him, he was laying down with Original Monkey, sucking his thumb.


Me: Hey, there.
Turtle: Go to sleep.
Me: Don't you want to get up?
Turtle: No.


So I let him be. If you get him up before he's ready, he's a beastly mess.  About 15 minutes later, he started calling me again.


At this point, if this blog was a movie, we would have a video montage set to something catchy by Green Day or the Black Eyed Peas, in which I abandon the baby, vault a flight of stairs, and singlehandedly rescue the lawn guy from Bentley, who is channeling a vicious rottweiler in a convincing attempt to keep said lawn guy from treating our yard.


(No lawn guys were harmed in the hypothetical filming of aforementioned montage.)


With the crisis averted, I returned to Turtle and we headed downstairs.


And I realized he felt kind of warm. And his cheeks were really flushed.


Normally, I don't worry about this. My temperature gauge is way off, and I'm always wrong about someone having a fever. But for some strange reason, I dug out the thermometer and stuck it under his arm.


100.7.

The pediatrician's office scheduled us to be there in 90 minutes. 

The nurse did his weight (34.2 lbs at about 37") and got his temperature. 99.7.


I was feeling a wee bit sheepish. I tried to laugh it off as I gave the backstory, and told her to jot down "neurotic mommy syndrome" in her notes.


She said "We call that mommy-itis. It's ok."


Dr. Mike was quick to meet with us. 


He checked Turtle's heart and ears (all clear) and then felt his glands. He asked me to lay Turtle down on the table and hold his arms so he could do a strep culture on his throat.


Cue the worst 30 seconds of my day.


Turtle only cried for a few minutes, and he was a good sport. The whole affair made me gaggy for him.

Dr. Mike left to check the culture and was back in a matter of minutes.

Dr. M: How did you know?
Me: Know what?
Dr. M: There's something brewing there. He's got the start of an infection. It's barely registering, but it's there.


Mommy-itis: 1. Strep Throat: 0.


Poor buddy had some grilled cheese, his meds, a nice bath, a story, and then went to bed.


Hopefully, we caught this bad boy early enough that it doesn't bother him. We're going to lay low tomorrow and watch all the Shreks (yes, even the third one) if necessary. Just til he gets back on his feet.


I also got a little pep talk for my Mom. She reminded me that if he's anything like me, he'll get something pretty much before every holiday. 


(Which brought to light a long repressed memory of Dr. Epstein, in his wood-paneled office, giving me a shot on my bum around Easter for a wicked sore throat. I remember wearing these wool, blue plaid pants, and I remember shrieking bloody murder and jumping to the point that I got stabbed in the wrong place and ended up with a bruise the size of a coaster on my butt cheek. And we all wonder why I never go to the doctor anymore.)


Sleep tight, little man. Sending lots of love and healing vibes your way.