Our doctor’s appointment ended up like some sort of super-unfunny sitcom.  I wouldn’t be surprised to see a similar plot on next week’s Two and a Half Men. Although I’ll shoot heroin into my eyeballs before I watch that show so I won’t actually get to see it.

Although the hospital is less than a mile from the house, I knew enough to leave 30 minutes early so we could figure out exactly where we were going. The nice old lady at the information desk (Oh what a beautiful baby!) sent us up to registration. Ten minutes of staring at an unmanned desk later, a registration specialist (secretary? check-in bitch?) came out and called our name. No I don’t have any paperwork. No I don’t know the baby’s social security number – I didn’t know he needed it as he’s a little young for legal employment. No I don’t know who the appointment is with. Yes I know he’s a beautiful baby. Ten minutes of phone calls and computers and shuffling paperwork later she told us our appointment was actually scheduled for the OTHER outpatient services. Aaaaand now we’re late.

So we strap the baby back in the carrier and drive to the OTHER outpatient services clinic in a strip mall off the highway. The nice old man at the information desk (Oh what a beautiful baby!) guessed that we wanted diagnostic imaging and sent us down to check in. Finally in the right place, another registration specialist checks us in. No I still don’t know the baby’s social security number. Yes we’ll be happy to wait.

We sat down to wait and had a conversation with another (drunk?) patient (Oh what a beautiful baby!), then we were called back to the x-ray room. After a few terrifying moments of staring at this horrible huge heavy scary machinery they want to lower over my child, we decided I would stay outside and E could wear the lead vest and hold the baby. Oh but before we do the x-ray we need the baby to drink this special x-ray stuff, probably full of radiation and poison. Baby Evan is waaaay to smart and decided he was having none of that. Actually, his objection wasn’t so much to the grossness of the liquid as it was to the method of delivery. He was all I DON’T TAKE BOTTLES and the techs were like EVER? Like, EVER? and Baby Evan was all GIMME A BOOB OR I’M OUTTA HERE. Who knew breastfeeding could be a bad thing when it comes to medical tests. So they tried to x-ray him anyway and got a great picture of his ribcage that shows absolutely nothing. But since the blood hasn’t reappeared and the specialist wasn’t too concerned (I’ve never had such a happy patient!) I’m going to officially stop worrying.

Our pediatrician is probably going to call this week with offers of another type of test – possibly a scope – but I think I’ll turn him down. Baby Evan’s 4 month check up is in a couple weeks. If anyone is still concerned at that point we can procede but since I have such a beautiful, happy baby I’m not going to risk turning him into a sick, troubled baby by sticking him with stuff and shoving things down his throat.

Growing up in New England, you quickly learn to become BFFs with any kid in the neighborhood who has a pool – even if he was the weird guy who drew on his arm or the girl who collected horse figurines. Since two months use isn’t enough to justify spending 30 grand digging a giant hole in the backyard, above ground pools are the standard. Those horrible 25 foot blue eyesores that were useless 10 months of the year became priceless for the sweaty, sticky months of July and August. I have hundreds of happy memories of splashing my way through rounds of Marco Polo where no one was ever actually out of arms reach or running in circles to make a giant whirlpool.

If you were unfortunate enough to get uninvited – or if you have the kind of selfish neighbors who never bother to invite you at all – you had to settle for your own sad kiddie pool, inflatable or plastic. Today, in the great tradition of New England summers, we introduced Baby Evan to the joy of sun-warmed hose water on as 85 degree day. And to make it really classy, we let him go naked.

We have an appointment with a GI specialist at the hospital on Monday morning. Normally I would be on the phone bugging the crap out of the specialist’s receptionist for an appointment NOW NOW NOW RIGHT NOOOOOW, but since my baby is currently doing his impression of the happiest baby in the world I’m ok with waiting. Baby Evan is less “sick” than “did this one crazy weird thing a couple times and now seems totally fine”. None of his spit up today has contained any blood and his diapers have gone back to the normal, non-explosive kind (side note – perhaps my insistence that we try to use up all the Size 1’s before buying bigger diapers contributed to the poopsplosion).

I’m almost tempted to cancel the appointment, except that I will feel so much better after they do an exam and an x-ray to make sure all his internal bits are present where they’re supposed to be. SOMETHING caused him to bleed, even if it isn’t hurting him and making him scream. I just don’t know if it’s worse to have totally inconclusive tests that prove nothing or no tests and no idea if it might happen again.

This morning, after a 6 am feeding in bed, a two hour doze session, another cuddly feeding and an hour of laughing and playing, baby Evan suddenly started PUKING BLOOD. My burp cloth was covered in red and brown streaks and I was flipping out. (He, on the other hand, seems to find it hilarious, and isn’t the least bit upset.) I checked my nipples to make sure it wasn’t coming from me. His diapers look totally normal. He isn’t teething yet and doesn’t have any cuts on his gums. And since he still won’t take a bottle or even a pacifier the only things that go in his mouth are my boobs.

After an emergency call to the nurse and a visit with the pediatrician, it turns out…no one has any freakin’ clue whats wrong. The doctor tested the spit-up – since the baby was helpful enough to puke right in the middle of the exam – and yes, it is definitely blood. But he said he’s never seen such a chubby, healthy, happy baby do anything like this before. He used the word “puzzled”. Then he used the word “specialist”. I’m sitting here pumping (to prove the blood isn’t coming from me) and waiting for the doctor to call with suggestions.

I would be freaking out a lot more if the baby was even the tiniest bit upset. So far he’s been eating and sleeping and napping and burping right on schedule – except now with blood! I’m hoping the specialists have helpful, reassuring advice so I can put the thoughts of Ebola and stomach cancer and holes in his intestines out of my head. Damn, I KNEW my baby was too easy.

p.s. To add to the fun, Baby Evan just had his first giant poopsplosion all over his legs, back, shorts, and car seat. It also appears to contain the same brownish blood streaks as the spit-up. OMG IT IS EBOLA.

So last night I was lying on the couch after dinner and I felt the baby kick in my stomach so I lovingly patted my belly and thought about the adorable miracle growing in…oh…wait…my baby is sitting next to me. My stomach is just fat. And those “kicks”? Were just gas.

You’d think I could tell the difference after actually having been pregnant but obviously I failed. Blame it on the baby-amnesia.