"I just called you," Big V announced.
"Sorry. I was working on my demo."
"The baby needs to go to the hospital."
"What?! Why?! What happened?"
"I don't know..."
"You don't know? Is he bleeding? Can it wait about 3 glasses of wine?"
"He's got spots."
"Spots? Like a cheetah?"
"No. Like on a wine glass."
"That sounds slightly sarcastic. You know, it's better than lipstick. That'd be gross."
"We're talking about the baby!"
"Right. The baby. Spots. Why?"
"Why are we talking about the baby?"
"No, why does the baby have spots?"
"I don't know - that's why he needs to go to the hospital."
And so it was that I learned my baby was covered in bright red spots. Reluctantly I agreed to take him to the ER. Don't judge me - he's the third kid. By this point in the game I know he's not bleeding or having difficulty breathing, so it's not life threatening, and we've already been infected if he was contagious, and my friend's kids are up-to-date on their vaccinations so, really, what's the harm in waiting a bit? But then V told me about some guy he knew that had measles when he was a kid and got a measle in the eye and lost that eye and I'd feel bad if that happened. I'd never make Mother of the Year if the public knew I traded a bottle of Riesling for an eyeball.
We threw the baby in the car (carefully placing him in the proper infant safety restraint system; does that help my campaign?) and promptly forget the diaper bag because who needs a diaper bag when you know you're going to be stuck with a 6-month old in a waiting room for four hours?
The good doctor came in and took a look around. The baby's back. Belly. Head. Scalp. Ears. Hands. He stepped back, wrapped the stethoscope around his neck, and sighed as he wrote things down on his little clipboarded paperwork.
"Well," he smirked. (Yes, he smirked.) "I can tell you it's not chicken pox and it's not measles... You've got fleas."
And with that little announcement my head whipped so fast towards V that the papers on the doctor's clipboard fluttered, Dotter covered her face with her hands (she knows how I feel about this dog), and V used every ounce of his being to physically morph himself into the wall in the hopes of not being seen.
"When was the last time you put the flea and tick stuff on the dog?"
"V. I can still see you. You are not wall art. When was the last time you put the flea and tick stuff on the dog?"
"I don't like putting that on her - I don't know if it's safe for her."
Seriously? I mean Seriously? Our baby is like a giant cheeto being gnawed on by a thousand wingless insects and you're worried that some product a gazillion dog owners happily use might be unsafe for Satan?!
It goes without saying my night was filled with vacuuming, bombing, washing, scrubbing and lots and lots of itching.