Ferber, Go to Hell

The little angel hasn't been sleeping well this week.  As you may recall, she had Vomit in the Crib on Friday, then she's been the victim of massive phlegm since then.  A few days ago, I called the pediatrician, and the nurse said to stop giving her dairy.  Which means milk.  Since that was unacceptable to the little angel, I started mixing her a gross half-and-half milk and water combo. 

Last night, she had had enough.  I put her down, after which she cried.  Then she screamed.  Then she howled at the moon. Then, she started tearing my heart out by crying plaintively, "Mommy!  MOMMY!  Wah! WAH!  MOOOOMMMMMMYYYYY! "

Then, even worse, "DAADDDDDYYY!"  My beloved is out of town.  Just please, be kind as you remove the stake from my innards.  Don't twist it so.  I think there may be shrapnel.  If she had suddenly learned the word for "Grandma" and called for her, I may have hitchhiked to Montana.

I thought I heard some strange noises.  I grabbed some straight milk - nurse be damned - and stomped upstairs.  Crabby, crabby, crabby.  I pulled the little angel out of the crib - Ferber, take your place next to the nurse - and stuck the cup in her mouth.  I smelled more vomit.  I flipped on the light and was horrified to see BLOOD mixed in with the vomit. BLOOD!   I had been sitting downstairs taking the little angel's name in vain while she was VOMITING BLOOD upstairs.

I am the worst mother in the whole world.

I blubbered all over her as I pulled off her nightgown and redressed her, changed her sheets and blankets and called the emergency doc.  I contemplated whether or not it was possible I was seeing red Tylenol instead of blood.  I do not know. I do not know anything.  The emergency doctor reassured me she was probably fine. By the time he called, the little angel had slurped down her straight milk and gone back to sleep after two minutes of angel back rubbing.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I told him.  "I think I need you to tell me she's fine.  I'm a new mom."

His bedside manner was good.  "How old is she?"

"Nineteen months," I burbled.  "This week."

"You're not a new mom!  You're a vet!" he laughed.

Vet, schmet.   It's a wonder she's still alive.