Little things that make my world go round

Last night, we celebrated my sister’s birthday. This was memorable for two reasons.

1:

I treated Riley to pea-size bites of vanilla ice cream and Matt drizzled root beer from his root beer float onto her tongue through a straw. So when I noticed a milky white glob on her pajamas I instinctively scoped it up and licked my finger. It was not ice cream. It was puke.

2:

Riley fell and hit her head (she has started taking her first steps). It’s usually Jonah’s rambunctious behavior I have to worry about. I ask my Mom if there is a grace period for head hits. She looks confused. I explain. Do they get so many times before there is actual brain damage? I’m partly joking, but partly searching for some assurance that my children are going to be ok.

I could call the doctor, but the conversation just sounds stupid in my head.

a look back

Every time I see my pediatrician, I have a list of things wrong with my kids. My mother-in-law tells me Riley has a hernia and my grandma-in-law seconds; my husband insists she is cross-eyed; and my mom demonstrates how she either breathes too heavily or is gasping for air. I’m told Jonah’s head is flat because we don’t give him enough tummy time; he has cradle cap; and cries inconsolably which means he’s colicky, suffering from acid reflux, or allergic to milk, a unanimous sentiment by all women.

My kids do cry a lot, however, I’m hesitant to call the doctor. I imagine the ridiculous conversation in my head.

“Dr. Mojibi’s office.”

“This is Karen Price, Mom of Jonah and Riley. I think I need to see the doctor.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My babies are crying.”

My sister’s kids are allegric to milk, and she says her doctor says it might be hereditary. So this time I’m going to have Dr. Mojibi test their stool for blood, which I’m told is a conclusive symptom of milk allergies. Hmmm, now which pocket in the diaper bag for the Ziploc bag of poo?

Of course, it’s not until the waiting room I realize I forgot to cap the baby bottles, and their change of clothes are soaked in formula. No clothes. And no food. Crap.