The baby was sick all weekend with some weird viral thing that the pediatrician diagnosed as “some crud.” Immediately after the Steeler game on Saturday, he puked, but that portion was mercifully over right away and replaced by a fever and sore throat. He was mostly better yesterday, but I kept him home.
Then last night, in the midst of cooking dinner (black bean soup, of all unpleasant visual things), this crap happened again. I’m now fairly certain that the culprit was not a virus but some protein mix that I had put into a smoothie both times that may have turned. I shuffled upstairs to brush my teeth and while I was in the bathroom, the baby adjusted the bed covers, laid a towel over my pillow like I do for him when he’s fighting stomach nastiness, placed a bucket next to the bed, then got some books out. When I came out of the bathroom, he splayed the books out in front of me, three Diary of a Wimpy Kid books and Tales of Beedle the Bard. “Mum, pick one,” he said. I picked the Beedle book. “Uh, not that one,” he replied. Then we climbed into bed and he read Diary of a Wimpy Kid to me while I closed my eyes and tried to think about all things non-vomitous.
It’s really nice to be taken care of sometimes.