Pumpkin was sick yesterday. Throwing up repeatedly, not a happy camper sick. Come to find out, he’s probably allergic to milk-based formula.
This same thing happened once before when he was two months old, but the ER docs (yup, we ended up in the ER with a two month old who had gotten dehydrated from vomiting) thought it was most likely a virus, not related to the formula the hubby had given Pumpkin when I was late home from an errand. Thinking better safe than sorry, we haven’t given him formula since…until yesterday. I didn’t have any pumped milk to mix with his rice cereal. I figured I should give it a shot, those doctors all thought it was a coincidence anyway. It was only an ounce.
And then, about an hour and a half later, I realized I should have gone with my good old motherly instincts. Damn.
Luckily, the experience we had before gave me the confidence to deal with this incident with much more grace and calm than I did back in January. A call to the pediatrician’s office confirmed that it’s probably the formula and I was armed with the ‘call us back if X, Y and Z’ list. And by late afternoon, he was nursing again, his color was back and he was interested in the world beyond mama’s shoulder.
In the midst of the worst of it, I called my mom for comfort and reassurance.
“This mothering thing doesn’t get any easier, does it?” I asked her, after I calmed down.
“Nope. They get older and don’t have the same constant need that you’re dealing with, but one day, they have kids of their own and call you one morning because their baby’s sick.”
“Guess I just proved my own point, huh?”
“You got it.”