Aiding and abetting Darwin

Let me start out by saying that I'm not trying to start a theological discussion. Simply put, I believe in Darwin's Theory of Evolution. Always have. But having a child is making me start to wonder about that.

Why? Because based on my admittedly amateur observations, the goal of all children, from birth until--well, I don't know when but I sure look forward to it--is to kill themselves. Or at least inflict serious self-harm.

I don't think it's intentional; at least, I'd prefer to believe that we don't have a little cult of suicidals running around. No, I think it's their innate need to figure things out. I just wish that the things they were figuring out weren't so bloody dangerous. Like stairs, and the need to see whether what goes up comes down, and just how quickly and painfully. Or what those little plastic things jammed into electrical sockets are. (A was less than a year old the first time she wandered over and handed me a plastic outlet protector. We quickly did away with them because she so enjoyed pulling them out that I felt like we were simply baiting her when we put them back in.) After myriad falls, scrapes, bruises, etc., I'm convinced that you could put nine innocuous things on a table alongside a grenade and the first thing a child would reach for would be, you guessed it, the grenade.

Which is why I'm pondering Darwin and his theory. If only the fittest of the species is supposed to survive, how does anyone make it out of childhood alive? This is, of course, rhetorical: because of his/her parents. So, then, are we interfering in the whole "survival of the fittest," thus changing it to "survival of the child with the quickest parents"? And yes, I know that he was referring to species... but so am I. As a race, humankind wouldn't have made it without hyper-vigilant parents. I fully believe this now.

Unless, of course, I'm wrong and it's only my little darling who is seemingly determined to off herself the second I turn my back. Weigh in, anyone? I figure I'd better know now whether to start saving for therapy or if I should just invest in a helmet and knee pads instead.

Paging Dr. Mom...

So, 3 1/2 years into this thing called parenthood, I'm thinking that I missed my calling in the medical profession. Of course, I owe it all to the little people. And by that, I mean all of the germy little buggers at daycare. (Mine own germ-laden tot included, of course.)

A has been in daycare since she was 10 weeks old (thanks, shitty state-sponsored non-maternity-leave program!), meaning that since she was 10 weeks old, her little system has been bombarded by the very best that germs have to offer. You name it, she's had it. Usually more than once. Ear infections? Out the wazoo. (And in the name of all deities, praise the ear tubes!) Rotavirus, the nastiest, vilest, most foul disease known to childkind? Three times, by my count. Strep, three times, including one grueling four-hour stint in the ER late on a Sunday afternoon. The raspy, frightening joy of croup? Golly, I don't even know if I've got a count on that one, I only know that my pores will be forever open thanks to hours spent in a steam-filled bathroom.

My point here is that through all of this, I've become an expert diagnostician. This is quite a recovery from the first year, where I blamed everything on teething only to find out that it wasn't, and didn't realize that she really had been teething until the little toothies actually poked through the gums. Since then, man, I'm like Hawkeye with the symptoms. Feels warm? I don't even check her temperature unless her palms are warm, because she's warm-blooded by nature. Temp of 100.7? It's an ear infection. Temp higher than 101? It's something worse. Temp hovering around 100-ish? Probably just a virus, unless an hour or two later, she projectile vomits. Then I know that I've got rotavirus (which I POTTY-TRAINED through, earning me Mother of The Damned Century, if you ask me). (And if you have no experience with rotavirus, I will simply say that it is an extended bout of diarrhea with the foulest smell ever to have smelled. It could be used in biological warfare. And I'm not even exaggerating--Google "rotavirus" and "smell" and you will find all sorts of wonderfully informative bits from beleaguered parents. Nurses and doctors alike can diagnose it by the smell alone. I shit, ha ha, you not.)

So, when the opportunity comes, as it did today, for me to receive that fateful call from daycare ("We've got A in the office with a fever of 101.4," delivered in an accusatory tone that implies that I'm happily foisting my ill child off in the hopes that she serves as a plague agent), the second I hang up the phone, I call the pediatrician to get an immediate appointment. (Do not wait for the weekend. Never wait for the weekend. The symptoms will only worsen. Trust me on this.) Then I picked up the child.

Like an expert, I took her measure. Slightly perky, slightly glazed-over look. Par for the course for just about anything. Took her home to wait out the hour before the appointment, she turned into a limp, whiny rag. Must be serious. I was told (by the child) to carry her to the potty, carry her to the car, carry her inside the doctor's office. (My back? Great, thanks.) Once inside, however, she perked up enough to play with some toys. Once in the exam room? She started running around like a lunatic, happily playing Simon Says. And her temp was about 100 degrees. T looked at me like, Yeah, you've overreacted again. And I'm thinking, oh, well, at least she's not sick... but damn it, I've lost my edge.

Doctor comes in, does a few peeks and prods, and ten minutes later confirms that her strep test came out with a faint positive, meaning we'd just caught the beginning of it. (And this is also a point of concern; once, I got her in there too fast and the rapid test came back negative, which was why we ended up in the ER on a Sunday afternoon.)

So, it's terrible to say that I was relieved about the diagnosis, but that's mostly because we caught it just in time, but not before just in time, and that by tomorrow afternoon, the lovely, lovely Ceflex will have knocked this thing out of her system and she'll be back to her vivacious (insane) self.

But a small part of me will admit that after we got the results and the doctor left, I looked at T, smiled, and said, "I told you so." Dr. Mom? I still got it.

Drinking games to make cartoons more tolerable

While I was getting ready for work this morning, A (while not getting the carton of milk out of the fridge, filling several assorted tea cups and bowls with it, and setting them on the coffee table for her "friends") was watching Little Einsteins. Based on this experience (the show, not the hissy fit I had about the milk), I've decided that an excellent drinking game for LE would be to take a shot every time any character says "Look!" You'd be shitfaced within the first five minutes. Of course, you get bonus points with Annie, who is evidently incapable of saying it once. ("Look look look!" Shaddup kid, I get it.)

And here's the best part: I sure won't be taking shots of milk. (Although they were already graciously laid out for me.) Bottom's up!

Chicken or the egg?

Actually, I think it depends on the species of the bird. Oh, what's that, you have no idea what I'm talking about? Parental paranoia. I was just wondering if you become more worried as a parent if you're already a worrying type, if it comes part and parcel with onset of owning a small being whose life hangs in the balance of your judgment, or if it's some combination thereof.

I'm Type A, always have been. I'm not a hypochondriac, never was--for myself or for loved ones; I always assumed that things would work out for the best. The downside is that I'm terribly surprised/unprepared when it doesn't.

But that all changed with the advent of baby A. I don't think I've ever worried more about anyone or anything. I only mention this because I've realized that of late, she's always wanting something to drink, even if it's just water, and that this is one of the first signs of diabetes. GREAT. So, until I can get her in to see the doctor, I'm going to be lying awake wondering if I'm just being paranoid or if it's a good catch. Chances are the former; I have never, ever been right about a diagnosis (other than ear infections--I'm an ace at those), including teething. (I blamed everything on teething when it wasn't and totally missed the ball when it was.)

So, just throwing this out there. Chicken, egg, or ostrich? Hm...

Edited today to add: Okay, so if the kids aren't enough to scare the hell out of you, the doctor fills in the gap. I called this morning and he freaked out and demanded that I bring her in RIGHT NOW. Long story short, she's fine, thank anyone and everyone. I told him he'd damn near given me a heart attack and he said that I'd almost given him one, so we were even. Evidently, he had a patient a few years ago with the same symptoms and they barely got him in before he lapsed into a diabetic coma. YIKES. So ever since, he's been a little gun-shy with the diabetes symptoms. So now I'm wondering if pediatricians don't actually have it worse than anyone...

Sign of the times?

I'm not terribly handy with math, but let's try a little here:

No. of trips to WalMart today: 1

No. of minutes spent at said WalMart: 30 (approx.)

No. of children I saw hitting a parent: 3

So, that's about one every 10 minutes, right? Meaning that this is, somehow, acceptable now? Somehow, I missed this memo, because I stared at all three of them in utter disbelief. The parents? They took it in stride, laughing or saying, "Does that make you feel better?" (And let me note for the record, these were not light smacks, although I don't believe in that, either--these were full-out wallops.)

I dunno. My parents rarely spanked/hit me, but the mere thought of hitting one of them when I was a child would have sent me screaming from the room at the inevitable repercussions. Jury, what say you?