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My poor little buddy is sick! This is what happens, I guess, once we stop breastfeeding. Those evil germs work their way in and set up camp like the disgusting mucous blob in the Mucinex ad. Yuck. He's got a runny, stuffy nose that's producing gobs of yellow stuff, a temperature right under 100, and a severe lack of energy. And when I went in to get him this morning, I found him covered in throw up. I guess I should be glad that it didn't bother him enough to wake him up, but--yuck.
I hate the fact that he's still too little to tell me what's wrong with him. I gave him some Children's Tylenol and that seemed to have helped. An hour later, he was attacking me with a baby wipe and laughing hysterically. But I can only guess.
He wandered away from me and into the living room this morning. Before I could even catch up with him, he was storming out again, squalling. His face was all scrunched up and there were a few tears, but mostly he just sounded mad. He threw himself at my legs, and, when I picked him up, proceeded to tell me a red-faced squawky story about whatever happened in the living room. Sadly, I do not speek squawk, so I'm not sure which of his toys committed such an injustice.
I will be glad when he has enough of a vocabulary to tell me what hurts.
In other news, happy St. Patrick's Day, all. Hoping everyone's celebration contains just as much corned beef and cabbage as they want. I know for me that's none. This makes it very easy to fulfil that wish.
Anyone want to come to an Arbonne party? I'm having one a week from Tuesday. Hoping I can spread the word of the miracle cream a little further.
And now I'm off to remove the newly de-vomited Dolly, Doggie, and Eeyore from the dryer. Happy afternoon, all.
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