I should be in bed right now; I'm not quite over my illness, and I'm exhausted from cleaning the house. We've got a showing tomorrow morning and then an Open House on Sunday. Still, I'm not certain that I'm going to have a chance to update when I'm at the Greenbrier, so I didn't want to blow my few misses over something as piddling as tiredness.

(A slave for you, my dear readers. I freely admit it.)

Sam woke up this morning feeling just as bad as he had been, and after having read over some of the archives to my journal, I realized that his track record shows him developing this same sickness every winter, and that it's never short-lived. I decided to seek help earlier rather than later, not wanting to expose Rita to any illnesses that can be avoided, and I made Sam a doctor's appointment for the afternoon. "Now I don't want to just drug him for what we think he might have," I cautioned the nurse over the phone, "but if we can determine what he has, I'd like to be able to help him get better quickly."

Naturally, Sam decided to be difficult. I don't mean that he was afraid or that he complained. Oh, no; he simply refused to exhibit any signs or symptoms for the doctor at all. He giggled, ran around the room, pulled the curtain open and shut, babbled, grinned, and generally acted like a perfectly healthy kid. He even pushed the doctor across the room in her rolling chair - no small feat, as she's ready to give birth any day now. "You're one strong boy, Sam!" she laughed, and she told me it was probably just a small virus that would run its course in a few days.

So I took him to lunch, and he threw up twice while we were there. I think I should have tried to feed him right before the appointment, just to get him to do that where she could see it.

He hasn't really eaten much in four days, since that's usually when he throws up. A handful of raisins here, a bite of a Nutella sandwich there, but anytime he tries to eat more than a single mouthful of anything, up it comes. As a result, he's been nursing like a newborn again - and thank God that he can do that, I say. Anything to keep him healthy and hydrated. The doctor said that since he was nursing, she wasn't all that concerned about the fact that he's not eating. He is, though; even his favorite foods make him sick, and that drives him mad.

Anyway, the only thing over which the doctor did express concern was the rash under his nose, which she said wasn't just red from rubbing, but is really impetigo. She gave us a prescription for antibiotics and one for a cream. I know that it's really bothering him ("My nose!" he wails. "My face!"), so I have no objection to using meds for it, even though it wasn't my primary concern.

At least it's not bronchitis or strep throat, she feels. It seems like every year we get a different diagnosis for the same set of symptoms. I wish there were a spit test or some such thing that could accurately diagnose these illness in babies.

I'd write more tonight - I wanted to tell you about the really great Christmas present for Sam that I happened to luck into at half-off today, or Sam's increasing vocabulary, or even the arguments a couple can have over laundry, of all things - but I've had to get up six times during the last couple of paragraphs to shove a towel under sleepy Sam's mouth as he gagged in his sleep. It's going to be a long night, so I'd better get what rest I can before tomorrow's piano class final, for which I've not even written the written portion. Sue me.

(One quick cute thing, though, before I go. He's finally named the stuffed cat that was mine when I was a little girl (I called it "Cougar Cat," myself). It's "Coughy Cat." I'm almost positive that he's not referring to the caffeinated beverage.)