OH, SWEET MOSES, ROSEOLA. It is not as rosy as it appears to be on the surface.
My child has tested every single limit that exists in this world over the past week, and I am glad that it's over. He has tested the limits of my love for constant screaming, my love for being hit in the face repeatedly, my love for being thrown up on, and my limits for hitting myself in the head with a mallet until things don't seem so bad. There is an eventual point when you have to hit yourself in the head with a mallet a whole lot of fucking times before a fifteen-month-old with roseola doesn't seem so bad.
The best part was how the description of roseola in my Dr. Spock book, right after it says "Live long and prosper, losers", says that it starts with three to four days of high fever with no other symptoms before the rash shows up, and how we took him to the doctor after four days of high fever and the doctor never mentioned there could be some roseola coming. If I, Mrs. Undergraduate Philosophy herself, can read a book and say "Now I bet that's what it is", then the doctor with all that schooling and those HIGHEST BILLS THEY HAVE ought to be able to say, "Hm, it could be roseola." Instead he just kept saying that he didn't know what it was. The next morning Reed woke up covered in spots, which is really unfortunate because dots are so out this season. I had a panic attack right before Jason, in all his husband slash potsmoker glory, said, "Eh, he's fine." Then I talked to a nurse who was not at all reassuring who said if there was no high fever she didn't know what it was and there wasn't any reason to bring him in. (She did, however, make me laugh when she said, "It could be fifth's disease, like 'one, two, three, four, fifths'", because it makes me think of Dave Chappelle.)
WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? They must not be parents, or else they must not be paranoid and crazy, one or the other, because they are all very nonchalant about not knowing what the fuck is going on with that hole in their asses, or is that the ground? WHO KNOWS?
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You gotta love being covered in someone else's vomit. What I like best is wondering who you should clean up first: yourself or your child. I often choose to clean Benjamin first, since he will usually rub his eyes (and therefore vomit into them) but then Jenni yells at me for standing around in puke pants. We usually let our dogs clean the carpet.
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