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5:37 a.m. - 2004-01-26


My original plan of laying around all weekend moaning "My ass ... I think I need some new DVDs to make my ass all better" were thwarted when Andrew legitimately got sick.

I said in my last entry that he had a "retro virus".

That's not true. A "retro virus" is something a computer gets.

He's got a "rotovirus" or "rotavirus".

And man ... has it ever blindsided the poor little guy.

This is the sickest he's ever been in three years. He's so weak he can't even sit up on his own.

Saturday night he wouldn't drink his Pedialyte or water or juice or anything.

All he wanted was milk.

And the kid NEVER wants milk.

"Give him some milk," I told the woman who lives with us.

"I don't think you're supposed to give a sick kid milk," she said.

"Bah!" I bahhed. "Milk coats the stomach. He'll be fine."

...There's a reason I'm not a doctor and I think it has something to do with the vast amount of ignorant reasoning swimming around in my head.

So she gives him milk and he guzzles it.

"More milk," he says weakly, handing her his empty cup.

She gives him more milk and the same scenario takes place.

She ends up giving him four little cups of milk.

Lemme tell ya something.

When milk curdles in a stomach for several hours, it comes back out in chunks.

It was like the kid turned into a white chocolate chunk spewing machine.

We now know that if a kid has an upset tummy, the LAST thing you want to give him is milk.

And I swear to you ... I SWEAR TO YOU that after he threw all this back up, the ONLY thing he said for the next 18 hours was "More milk".

Every 2-3 minutes, he'd moan "Morrrrre Millllllk".

At first, I thought he was getting his energy back and was mewing like a cat.

So I'm saying back "Meowwwwww".

You know...playing a game with him.


"Millllllllk" was not "Meowwwwwww".

I finally used the Internet for something more than updating this stupid page and looked up "Rotovirus".

I found out that the scariest part about this was the dehydration that can happen.

Andrew had about seven of the symptoms.

So naturally, I panic because if he were to die it'd be back to just me and his mother in this house and the woman would drive me absolutely bonkers one-on-one.

We get the doctor on call at his pediatric office who agrees to meet us at the office.

He checks his eyes, mouth, ears and listens to his tummy and says he's plenty hydrated and that he's at an age now where if he WANTS to drink, he WILL drink.

He reminded us that Andrew's been puking his guts up and his stomach's in knots so he's being extra wary of what he puts in there right now.

This calms us both down a little.

We go home and he moans for "more milk" for the next several hours and is not taking any excuses for us not supplying him with more milk.

"We don't have milk," I told him.

"Morrrre Millllk," he replied.

"Milk makes your tummy bad," I said.

"Morrrre Millllk," he replied.

"Look Andrew," I said sternly. "You've sucked the teat of every goddamned cow in the world dry. THERE IS NO MORE MILK."


"Morrrre Millllk," he finally moaned.

The kid's delerious.

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