So my daughter Julia, has been blowing chunks for the past 3 days. That doesn’t make her smarter than me. That part will come later – and if blowing chunks made you smart, I’d be designing rockets right now.
We took her to the doctor and she was diagnosed with a ‘tonsil infection’. I think that is really just code for “she’s sick, but we’re not sure why. Please leave now and here is some antibiotics so you don’t go away mad.” Ironic really since she’s scheduled to have her tonsils out next wednesday. Now the infection of the tonsils threatens that very proceedure. Convoluted, I know, but then again so is healthcare.
So yesterday after trying to have a piece of toast, and having it subsequently rejected by her innards, Julia retired to her perch on the couch.
So after consultation with Lyn who has endured the past 3 days of intestinal outbursts as well as the teething of ‘l’petit castor’ Emma who is chewing off table legs and constructing a dam in the basement, we determined that – for the big kids at least – it was ‘pizza night’. The call to Domino’s was made.
Julia overheard the call and perked up, noting, “I LOVE PIZZA! Can I have some cheese pizza, pluuuuhhheeaaze?”
After being informed that I didn’t think this was in the best interest of the health of her insides as well as the condition of her pajamas, she insisted.
I gave her the obligatory “We’ll see,” never intending for a moment to actually give her any, figuring the allure will have worn off by the time said pizza arrived.
It didn’t.
With the doorbell came the exaultant screams of “PIZZA’S HERE!” and the scramble to get into her booster seat. By the time I paid for the pizza and brought it to the table, the foaming at the mouth had begun. I was in trouble.
I tried to stand my ground citing that it “was for your own good” and “it will just make you sick again…” No dice. The tears ensued. Lyn stepped in with ‘If she wants pizza, give her pizza.’
“But dear,” I protested, ‘What about the yaking and the mess and it’s no fun and blah, blah, blah…” After all, giving pizza to the sick child, this is bad parenting. What would Bill Cosby say?
My exasperated wife responded, “She’s been throwing up for 3 DAYS, everything is a mess at this point!”
The women win, again. Pizza is served.
She ate a whole piece.
We waited. Waited.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. The tense evening passed. Nothing. Julia played. WRESTLED with Emma.
“She’s going to wait until she’s in bed.” I said to Lyn. “That way she’ll get her pajamas AND all the bedsheets in one fell swoop.”
We put her to bed. Nothing. I slept uneasy all night – waiting for the call…
This morning, the light goes on in Julia’s bathroom and I go down the hall, fully expecting this to be the moment. I turn the corner, as she’s finishing using the bathroom. She turns to me and lights up, bright as a bell, and says “SEE DAD! I TOLD YOU the pizza wouldn’t make me sick!”
“Must have been magic pizza.” I said.
“Yea! Magic pizza!” she laughed and ran off.
Naive youth, 1 – Wise elder, 0.
So all of you out there who were cringing or bemoaning my lack of good parental sense back when I was giving her the pizza, well, she’s not blowing chunks now. She’s smarter than you too.
This morning when Lyn tried to give her toast for breakfast, she asked for cereal with – gasp – milk. Milk is not good for sick people. Lyn told her this to which she replied “Mom, listen to me. I’M ALL BETTER.”
So that’s taken care of. Julia’s apparently ok. Now I need to get Emma focused on firewood for the winter – I swear she eats more than she stacks.