“It’s just that this cough he has isn’t going away,” I told the doctor. “He’s still awfully congested and it’s been almost two weeks.”
“Hmmm,” the doctor said. “Well, is he eating well?”
“Yes.”
“Sleeping well?”
“Yes.”
“His temperament is really good, so it’s probably just lingering mucus from an infection.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as the doctor peered into my little one’s ears.
“... Although there is the matter of this ear infection,” she said.
“Huh?” I replied. “Aren’t babies really irritable when they get those? I was told to look for trouble eating and tugging on ears.”
“Well, some babies have a higher pain tolerance than others,” she replied. “Oh dear, there’s an infection in the other one, too. They’re both quite advanced.”
Although the news she was giving me was bad, I had a sliver of pride in the fact that my baby was so good-natured as to not trouble me with his pain and suffering — how thoughtful.
After picking up the antibiotic and getting him comfortable, I resumed with normal daily activity. In my mind, this was the third in a series of bad news events (you know, the scientifically recognized Rule of Three of Doom). My dog had died just the day before, my husband had shipped out West on a last-minute surprise trip for another week, and my baby’s ears were on fire.
Surely this meant the Bad Luck gods would not visit again for a while.
That night I got home, and my German Shepherd was in the driveway to greet me. Apparently, in his newfound solitude in the backyard kennel, he felt the need to pry the metal fastenings away from the frame and squeeze through an opening the size of a walnut.
There also was a note on the door: “Found your dog running around in the street. He almost got hit by a car. I put him back in your kennel.”
“How thoughtful,” I thought. “Only you escaped again, you goon,” I growled at him as he hung his head in shame.
When we got back to the house, I found that my cat had been sick in the living room.
“Argh!” I cried. “Not another round of three!”
The next morning, Peanut turned nine months old. As I got ready, I was mentally preparing for the next bad thing to happen.
I walked into his room and he gave me a big smile, only there was something there that hadn’t been there the night before: two teeth coming through.
What a good baby.
— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.
“Hmmm,” the doctor said. “Well, is he eating well?”
“Yes.”
“Sleeping well?”
“Yes.”
“His temperament is really good, so it’s probably just lingering mucus from an infection.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as the doctor peered into my little one’s ears.
“... Although there is the matter of this ear infection,” she said.
“Huh?” I replied. “Aren’t babies really irritable when they get those? I was told to look for trouble eating and tugging on ears.”
“Well, some babies have a higher pain tolerance than others,” she replied. “Oh dear, there’s an infection in the other one, too. They’re both quite advanced.”
Although the news she was giving me was bad, I had a sliver of pride in the fact that my baby was so good-natured as to not trouble me with his pain and suffering — how thoughtful.
After picking up the antibiotic and getting him comfortable, I resumed with normal daily activity. In my mind, this was the third in a series of bad news events (you know, the scientifically recognized Rule of Three of Doom). My dog had died just the day before, my husband had shipped out West on a last-minute surprise trip for another week, and my baby’s ears were on fire.
Surely this meant the Bad Luck gods would not visit again for a while.
That night I got home, and my German Shepherd was in the driveway to greet me. Apparently, in his newfound solitude in the backyard kennel, he felt the need to pry the metal fastenings away from the frame and squeeze through an opening the size of a walnut.
There also was a note on the door: “Found your dog running around in the street. He almost got hit by a car. I put him back in your kennel.”
“How thoughtful,” I thought. “Only you escaped again, you goon,” I growled at him as he hung his head in shame.
When we got back to the house, I found that my cat had been sick in the living room.
“Argh!” I cried. “Not another round of three!”
The next morning, Peanut turned nine months old. As I got ready, I was mentally preparing for the next bad thing to happen.
I walked into his room and he gave me a big smile, only there was something there that hadn’t been there the night before: two teeth coming through.
What a good baby.
— Sarah Leach is assistant managing editor of The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.
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