Why I Hate January

I have never been one to have a favorite month. I've always thought the notion to be a bit silly. Sure, I prefer the warmer months more than the colder ones, but I'd be hard pressed to declare one of those months my very most favorite. I can, however, officially declare January as my least favorite. I nearly hate it. This time last year, almost exactly, Aidan was in the hospital getting IV treatment for rotavirus. Here is a picture of him this morning (it got worse than that):

Monday night we noticed what we thought was a diaper rash.  The next morning, as I was changing his diaper, I noticed his bellybutton looked funny, all sunken in.  I said out loud "What happened to your bellybuton?", to which Aidan had no reply except to reach down and scratch his belly.  Upon further inspection I noticed his entire abdomen was one huge welt and there were more under his arms and on his back.  The diaper rash from the night before had also grown to prove to not be a diaper rash after all.  Later that day Aidan's pediatrician, Dr. Cannon, declared it an allergic reaction, probably to the Augmentin Aidan had been taking for an ear infection he got last week.  He said to stop the Augmentin as the ear infection had cleared and give him benadryl to ease the itching and to call him if the hives got worse, developed "bull's eyes", or started bruising.  This morning the hives were worse.  Some had bull's eyes.  And he had bruises on his legs.  His left eye was nearly swollen shut.  So I called the doctor again.  He wasn't in but his nurse told me to make an appointment with another doctor in the clinic and, heaven forbid, call 911 if Aidan's breathing got labored.  His appointment was at 2:00 pm.  My mom came over to be there with Emily in case I had to leave with Aidan suddenly.  I sat with Aidan on the couch, by this time he was burning hot and, to me, he was having a hard time breathing.  Since I'm paranoid, we called 911.  That's right.  I called 911.  Within 10 minutes at least six EMTs show up at my door and crowd my tiny living room.  Aidan, the poor thing, was terrified.  All the sudden these big men he doesn't know are poking and prodding.  He's screaming at the top of his lungs (which, by the way, is a good sign).  They take his temperature, the not nice way, and discover he has a temperature of 102.7.  His breathing is fine, he just needs some Tylenol and another trip back to the doctor to check out his hives.  They offered to "transport" him in the ambulance, but I declined, figuring that Aidan had been through enough and wouldn't appreciate the awesomeness of riding in an ambulance.  Oh, and my poor husband, he gets a call at work from my mother saying that I had called 911 and he better leave work.  Ugh, I'm so ashamed.  Anyway, the doctor ends up prescribing Aidan something a little more powerful than benadryl and said he should be feeling better (and looking better) in a couple days.  

I'm so... embarrassed, and a little ashamed.  My poor son, everything I put him through.  When I went to fill his prescription I wandered around the store trying to find things that would make him feel better.  A matchbox car.  Some Curious George fruit snacks.  Orange chicken for dinner.  Jelly bellies.  As if all these things would right the indignities I forced on him.  Guess what?  He didn't care.  Sure, he loved the car, downed the orange chicken, spit out the jelly bellies, but he didn't seem to hold any of what had gone on against me.  All night he kept saying "Mommy!  I need you!" and held my hand and put his head on my shoulder.  Oh, my sweet boy.  He's sleeping now and I worry.  I worry he's going to get worse.  I worry that.... well, I worry for the worst.  I want to go and cuddle up in his bed with him and make sure he's okay all night long.  I want him to be back to normal again. 

I hate January.