So yesterday I found something that bothered me in Charlie’s diaper.
No, not poop. That doesn’t even bother me anymore. I have grown desensitized to poop (yes, I had to ask the twitters because my brain is so mushy I couldn’t even think of that word).
Actually, it wasn’t in his diaper, it was on his booty.
My baby’s tiny perfect booty had a nodule near it’s booty hole. It was like a big zit, but red and inflamed and raw.
And I did what any mom would do.
I went to the facebook and the twitters.
So then I thought it was perhaps athlete’s foot of the booty hole since it didn’t look like the yeast infections Eddie would get in his fat rolls when he was that little (yes, we have monistat in the house. for my son).
But Cort, being the super dad he is, picked up a new tube of monistat and a tube of lotrim. But when he got home, and I made him look at this son’s bootocks, he thought it looked more like an abscess or sore. So I decided to call the doctor.
The nurse said that yes, absolutely, he should come in and to call again at 7am the next morning for a same-day appointment.
(side note: While I really love our doctor and the office, I hate this policy. At least when I am calling at almost 4pm. That is almost the end of the day, why can’t you just give me an appointment for tomorrow when you KNOW I need to be there? Annoying.)
Of course after I called, Charlie decided he was pissed the world. He cried and cried and cried for about an hour straight.
My mind decided it was because of his booty owie (even though the darn thing didn’t seem to bug him all day up to that point) and I started searching his body for other indications that he was sick.
This was a dumb choice.
By the time Cort and Eddie came home at 5pm, I had decided that my baby had something that was sure to be fatal. I had found bumps everywhere (um, baby acne, anyone?), red spots (scratches from his
razors talons finger nails that needed clipping), and I thought sure he had a rash on his eye (because the intense bawling didn’t have any effect on his eyes, right?).
A booty bump + bawling baby + sleep-deprived mother running on 42 contiguous minutes of sleep, 2 cookies and 2 cups of coffee total for the day, and no real shower = ridiculous anxiety driven conclusions. Just picture me completely busted-looking standing on that Jump To Conclusions mat from the movie Office Space, but the mat has only cancer and death written for every conclusions. Yeah. That was me yesterday.
This morning, after Charlie’s 6am feeding, I
watched Sports Center sat and stared at nothing in particular until the clock said 7am and Cort and Ed had left the building. I called, made a 10:30am appointment, and Charlie and I curled up on the couch and sacked back out.
By 10am, though, we were up, dressed, and ready to roll.
We were to see the Nurse Practitioner today since Charlie’s regular doc wasn’t in, which was fine because the NP is awesome.
But first we had to get through the nurse who takes all the vitals like head circumference (um, the issue is his BOOTY). Then the questions started about his (our) health history.
The last question she asked me before leaving Charlie and me to wait for the NP? “And what kind of cancer did his grandpa have?”
That whole freaking out thing? It started to happen in my head again.
Seriously? Is that really something they needed to ask? It’s all there in the computer under “health history.” I know. I had to fill it out for Eddie AND Charlie AND myself when we all came to this office.
So the NP comes in, listens to his heart, checks his booty. Agrees that even though it looks better today, it’s good I came in. Checks the rest of his body for rash (there is none, regardless of my panic attack the day before).
She announces she’s pretty sure it’s just a normal little thing that should go away on it’s own and to keep some Neosporin on it, but because of his age she wants to culture it just to be sure it’s not bacterial.
So she covers up his bits with the diaper and says she’ll be right back.
To me, “right back” means she has to grab the culture Q-tip thingy from a room possibly right next door. “Right back” means, don’t bother putting his diaper all the way back on, I will be back in before the door completely closes.
This was not what “right back” meant.
So Charlie peed all over the exam table.
ALL OVER. Like dripping down the sides, swimming in a pool of his own urine, all over.
I stood there a minute.
I grabbed his burp cloth from my diaper bag and laid it under him, and just then Mrs. Right Back was indeed back.
“Sorry, I had to go down the hall to…”
“He peed. I”m so sorry.”
At least she laughed. And then wrapped him in one of those sheet things that you spread over your lap when you’re about to get your lady bits looked at.
Eventually his booty was swabbed, a clean diaper and clothes put on, our co-pay paid, and we were on our way.
And yes, I did treat myself to a latte from Starbucks after all that.