Ryan threw up four times on Friday.
Then he slept for 14 hours, at which point he woke up in a piss-poor mood and began whining.
He has been whining ever since.
All weekend, he would sign to us that he was hungry. Then he would promptly drop any food we offered him over the side of the high chair.*
Then he whined some more.
He refused to nap all weekend, opting to whine instead.
He woke up early this morning and stood in his crib with one long and incessant “eeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhh” while we got ready for work.
Mike dropped him off at daycare and sent me a text, as he does every morning to let me know he was dropped off safely. Today’s text read: “Dropped. Wow.”
I am torn between two feelings. First, that awful feeling you get when your kid is sick. How more than anything in the world, you wish you could take away their discomfort. Wishing that you at least knew what doesn’t feel right so that you could try to alleviate it.
There’s that feeling and then there’s the feeling of Oh Dear Mother Of God Make The Whining Stop Before My Head Spins Off My Neck And Shoots Across the Room.
He has no other symptoms that we can pin-point. No throwing up since Friday. No fever, no cough, no unusual lethargy. Just a whole lot of whining.
We dared to step out of the house for 25 minutes last night to grab dinner at the neighborhood diner. Naturally, he whined the whole time. Unless Mike dropped water from a straw into his mouth. Over and over and over: