If I were actually keeping a list of the numerous things I never expected to experience as a parent, it would be pretty long. And while I don't really intend to make one, I have an entry to add:
Responding with excitement- nay- elation, at the poop flying towards my face this evening.
As if to counter the relief I've been experiencing over how well Michael has taken to the introduction of solids, despite his digestive issues, I had a new mini-crisis develop over the last couple of days.
Well, mini-crisis is an exaggeration of the circumstance, but an understatement of how it's made me feel. Michael's gotten a bit backed up. And at first, I wasn't concerned when a couple of days went by, and I hadn't seen those peas come full circle. I figured he was just adjusting his version of normal. And when they finally appeared, but just a tiny bit at a time, I felt sympathy over the discomfort it must be causing him, but figured it would all work itself out.
Until it didn't, and an angry, horrible rash ensued, along with a (much more than usually-so) miserable night, and clear signs of discomfort and straining. We tried 2 ounces of prune juice last night, to no avail.
I followed up with another visit to Urgent care, nonsensical in my exhaustion, at which it was determined that there was no blockage, there was a cream for that rash, and he could keep on drinking prune juice (and laying off solids and formula) until we made some progress.
A four ounce bottle (50% prune juice/50% water) was mostly-consumed upon our return. I thought I heard some movement in his belly, but dinner was ready, and I figured he could use more time. I expected to find something to be proud of in that last diaper change before bed.
But, no. Just a teeny tiny bit, like I've seen so many times before. Frustrated on my little guy's behalf, I carefully went in for the clean, and suddenly it was "all systems go." He whined, he cried, he strained, and I cried a little for him, even as I tried to encourage him along. He didn't get much for his effort, but it was more than I've seen in all the times before, and I was pleased for him. He continued to cry as I bent down to give him one last wipe, and found myself face-to-face with a little projectile. He finally got that last piece out.
I whooped so loud that Tom called down to see if I was okay. I assured him that all was well, and that his boy "done good."
And thankfully, it stopped short of my nose.
I want that to be the end of my worrying, but it's not. I'm terrified to make any changes to his diet, ever again. And I'm still staring at the pile of paperwork in front of me, of growth charts and medical records, that I was given for the GI Specialist to whom we've been referred.
Before I started this post, I pulled up a bunch of pictures, one for each month, to track how much he's changed, how far he's come.
How skinny he's gotten.
I'm counting down the hours until Monday's appointment. I pray we get some answers there.