A couple of days ago, Luke offered up to me 14 bouts of diarrhea and 2 fun-filled sessions of vomiting. Gooood times! Seriously though, the poor baby was such a trooper. What bothered him the most was how sore his bottom got with a diaper rash. He actually spent ALL day on the couch and watched 4 movies and an array of cartoons. This NEVER happens, but I'm glad he was able to relax and recover instead of trying to play through it and wear himself out anymore than he needed to. By the second day (yesterday), he was much better. Still feverish and sluggish, but no more diarrhea and vomiting. Yay! The tunnel was short and we were in the light!
Then, this morning rolls around. Just before 6 a.m.,Beau shows up in our bedroom doorway with "jazz hands" out and walking like Frankenstein proclaiming, "Mom, I throwed up in my bed!" I bolt up in bed to see my little jazzy Frankenstein looking like he just dove into a triple scoop, chocolate ice cream cone. Aaaahhhh! His face was covered in vomit right along with his p.j.'s. We walked to his bathroom to get him cleaned up, and he proceeds to tell me how his belly had been hurting him and he "throwed up" all over his bed and how he was now "sick like Luke". I agreed, and then he says with a waivering voice and forlorn expression, "I think I'm not having a very good day." :( No buddy, I think you're not!
Next??
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