Monday, August 18, 2003

Motrin, he says.

On Saturday night, right after I finished reading the New Yorker article about the child with Kowasaki disease, Steve walked into the bedroom with a hot, crying baby. Ian was having trouble breathing, and his face was bright red. We squirted two droppers of Motrin down his throat, and then consoled him with a bottle of milk. It took a couple of hours of walking around and watching Larry King for him to finally go to sleep.

At 5:00 am, he woke up again hot and crying. And that was my Sunday, hot and crying baby all day. Sometimes the crying would wind down to a whimper, but that was as good as we got. Not even the Wiggles could make him happy.

I had planned on getting work done yesterday. I still have to finish the brilliant conclusion to my brilliant journal article. I have to figure out what panels I will be able to endure at the conference. Perhaps put together an outline for a book to shop around to publishers. And school starts in a couple of week, and I need to revise my syllabus and put it on-line. But not much happened. I tried for a short while to ignore the situation and work on the syllabus, but Ian clung to my legs and I couldn't concentrate. A lost work day.

Dr. G. might get a call at 9:00. I hate calling him because he won't do anything for the kids unless they are bleeding from the eyes. He is a one doctor crusade against the over prescription of antibiotics, so he never gives them out. Motrin, he says. And then gives me a 50 minute lecture on a study in Holland that showed that 90% of ear infections cure themselves. "I don't care, Dr. G. Just do something to stop this crying before I stick a gun in my mouth."

I guess I'm not going to get much work done today either. At least he doesn't have Kowasaki disease.

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