Thursday, August 12, 2010

11w 4d vesiculation

So my baby has an acute or chronic inflammation of his skin, characterized by redness, itching, and the outbreak of oozing vesicular lesions which become encrusted and scaly. Sexy, no? He was already bright red and dry before the delightful "oozing" began.

Eczema can be allergic or non-allergic. Let's hope for non, seeing as there's only one thing in his diet, so... yeah.

On the plus side, even if his sole food source is turning him bright red and scaly, at least we can be certain he's getting nourishment. Our little peanut now weighs a whopping 13 pounds, 11.5 ounces.

There really aren't words specific enough to describe what it's like when something is wrong with your baby. Let's just say, once you reach that moment, all your trepidation about sticking a thermometer up your baby's butt vanishes. You need to know his temperature. You need to obsessively analyze his temperature ala Google. You need to stare at his dry, scaly, legion-filled face and bite your nails. You need to consult every acquaintance you have on Facebook. You need to call the nurse hotline, just to hang up twenty minutes later and realize you're no farther ahead than you were twenty minutes ago.

You need to send him to his doctor, and please please get a trustworthy answer. Suddenly all the tiny "symptoms" he's had the last week start adding up into calamity. The drooling. The cough. The one slightly swollen eyelid.

Even when you get an answer, you can't settle. What if it's not the answer?

Twenty-four hours after the panic first set in, I was better. Comfortable enough to finally do the thing I'd been dreading since the beginning of it all, since his first night sleeping there in our bedroom, tiny and needy and mine.

He slept in his crib. In his nursery. Where I couldn't see him or reach him. At least, not without opening two doors and crossing two feet of hallway.

I fiddled with the monitor for five minutes, volume down, volume up, nervous and unhappy, before finally embracing the new parent cliché. Full volume. I didn't care if it disrupted my sleep. I needed to hear my baby breathe. Hear his stomach rumble. Hear his legs kick.

And when he cried a little faster and a little louder than normal in the middle of the night, I let myself believe it was because he liked this new arrangement about as much as I.

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