Tomorrow

Miles' stomach has been in overdrive for the past 48 hours.  Last night he was so mad by 6:00, we just put him down for the night.  I tried to get a few ounces of food down his gullet, but little man screamed bloody murder at the slightest whiff of soy.  Pure exhaustion from his tantrums bought us a solid night of sleep.  Miles awoke bright eyed and starving around 7 this morning.  The spit-up didn't kick in until around noon.  Since then, it's been a puke party that nobody wanted to be invited to. . .

Laundering has reached an all time high for our house.  I am constantly washing spit-up staining clothing for all three of us.  I'm sure the dogs will eventually get sprayed if they keep nosing around.  Friday night I was so worn out that I went and picked up our delicious pizza (Greek pizza- a feta fest for the mouth!!!), I reeked of baby bile.  Miles hosed my sweater and jeans right as I was leaving the house, and darn it- I couldn't muster the energy to be embarrassed.  In fact, I wore my stains as medals of honor, rights of passage, and as tiny souvenirs of my son.   

More than anything, I want to get Miles feeling better.  He's already been through so much, and it makes me angry that when things started settling down from his heart surgery other problems started to surface.  Please let there be a quick fix: a prescription, a change in diet, a secret handshake to use with the GI specialist, anything that will help him feel better.  We are soooooo overdue for a good stretch, especially Miles.  How can someone so small be so brave?  Every day I trace his scar with my fingers, that pinkish reminder of his by-pass surgery.  And as I look woeful, he giggles because it tickles.  To him, tomorrow will not be a big deal.  It's just a chance to flirt with more nurses, share smiles and have extra attention.  I'll try to keep the same perspective, just minus the flirting.