Round 2

Today was my son's turn to experience loss of appetite, two naps, and VIP seating on mommy's lap. Our chiropractor was kind enough to call and check on us after we'd been in this afternoon. She even offered to stop by on her way home and do a recheck. We gladly accepted since my son was weirdly clinging to me with a listless expression on his face, and showed absolutely no interest in his favorite food (bunny crackers). As his sister was eating her dinner, he was snug in my arms and becoming increasingly lethargic. At my husband's urging we retrieved the thermometer, and after some ineffectual protesting, managed to take an under arm temperature of 101.7 °F. Just about the time our beloved chiropractor was pulling up to our house (her office is literally a 5-minute drive from our place), I felt the first wave of warm slime hit my shoulder. Round 2 was underway. I deserved it didn't I? I'd flaunted my arrogance by momentarily believing that my son would evade an encounter with my new foe: norovirus.

Surprisingly, we managed to wipe up (and towel off) a majority of the goop before Dr. Amber stepped foot into our kitchen (if only we could have just as easily wiped away the lung gripping stench of vomited milk). Anyhow, in the cloud of sick stench, she went to work and was able to adjust my son without his uttering a single whimper or complaint. Within minutes, he'd slipped off of my lap and began walking around the kitchen. Not the same boy. At her suggestion, we took his temperature again. Even though the first reading had been taken only a few minutes earlier, his fever was down to 99 °F. My husband and I looked at each other, stunned.

After many thanks and the acquisition of a number of stickers (Dr. Amber had brought her secret weapon: a sticker pack from the dollar store), we were able to head upstairs with the kids and continue with our regular bed time routine. In our crazy lives, house calls are a real blessing.