Enfermo

Who’s up for another episode of Sick Baby In The Big Purple House? This time we are home to the dreaded hand, foot, and mouth virus. I wrote last week or so about the fact that this little number was tearing through the members of the older classroom at W’s school. I knew W was doomed to get it when I was told he had been playing lately with the older kids in an effort to ease his upcoming transition in June to the 18+ month-old sect. Now switch to this past Saturday morning. W and I enjoyed breakfast with Miss Jo on the east side and then we went to see a friend who was prepping for a garage sale. Things seemed relatively normal with the kiddo. W was his predictable shy, clingy self, but when we went to Toys R Us, I realized I had an emerging situation on my hands. We all know how overly stimulating that place is with its giant plastic toy displays, it’s hyper-active birthday parties with sugar amped kids yelling “Happy Birthday So and So!” at the tops of their screeching lungs over and over as they move through the store like a pack of wild wolf pups, and how every aisle has at least two children “trying out” a toy while a parent is pleading for them to stop or watch out or I’m leaving you here (which is exactly what they want to happen). W just sat there like a wilted flower in the cart, a package of monster truck cars in his lap, his grip slack as the fever slowly took hold. It wasn’t until we got home and were sitting on the couch talking about where our eyes, nose and teeth were when I saw that his tiny tongue had reddish spots on it. “Oh no!” I yelled in my head as I looked closely at his hands and feet. Like an image coming in to focus under a microscope, I realized the stigmata on each limb, blisters, clear signs of the attack on his immune system.

So we spent the rest of the beautiful weekend doing nothing. W became Velcro Baby, preferring contact with me to the Hubs. The pain of the ulcers in his mouth and most likely a sore throat made eating agonizing for him. At night he and I shared the guest bed so I could be there to offer him water from his favorite Elmo sippy cup when needed (W has decided that water is now called “Pi” so he repeats “Pi peas, pi peas.”). We tossed and turned like a dingy in stormy waters through the wee hours of the mornings, W insisting on sleeping directly on top of me. Poor little guy, every other week it’s some sort of battle with a daycare bug. It’s frustrating and sad to see him so puny so often. Is this really part of the deal? Can I make a new deal?