Our little boy is feeling bad. He has had more trips to the bathroom in the last 24 hours than I'd like to recount. So we're headed to a pediatrician this afternoon to see what bug has got his insides all churned up. I cross my fingers that it is something we can get under control real soon. There isn't much worse than watching your two year old on the pot crying, "my bottom really really hurts." Poor guy.
He is asleep right now and Danny and Harper are out dropping off a poop sample at the doctor's lab. I have too much time on my hands so I sit here and worry. I don't like being away from the familiar right now. I know taking this trip we had this coming, we all knew bad diarrhea was in the cards, but it still feels like we've been caught off guard. Why couldn't it have hit me or Danny?
But I guess we're not the ones that walk down the streets of Quito rubbing our hands against every wall. We don't pick up pieces of sparkling trash at the park and announce that we've found "a treasure." When eating we keep all of our food on our plates, as opposed to the complex fork maneuverings used by one of our children that almost always sends something rolling onto the table (and then is quickly swiped up into the mouth.) We wash our hands after we go to the bathroom, not only when we're pressed about it. We don't pick up lovies from the floor and cover them in kisses.
It's no wonder he's sick.
All right it is time to wake him up and head to the doctor. We'll post what we find out soon.