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Davis is sick again...cough, runny nose, no appetite, wheezing. We saw a new pediatrician and she prescribed him with a month's supply of steroids and asthma medication. She thought it might strengthen his lungs through the winter and hopefully keep him healthier. Because she gave us liquid forms of both, we had to get a $200 firetruck-shaped nebulizer.

It makes this loud washing machine sound when you turn it on. Cool, red firetruck or not, I knew there was no way in hell Davis was going to go for this. I turned it on and tried to put the mask over his head. Ummmm...wow. He leapt off the kitchen counter and darted for my bedroom. When I walked into my room, he was curled up in a ball, crying. I said, "Davis do you wanna do the firetruck medicine, now?" "No, no, no thank you." He thinks that if he uses his manners, then he doesn't have to do anything he doesn't wanna do. Like, 'Did you hear me? I said it nicely. So just go ahead and throw that stupid firetruck/washing machine out of the window. Thank you.'


And...Enter 5:30 this morning...

"MOMMA! MILK! I need milk. Milk. Pease. Pease, Momma. Milk. MILK! I need milk. Pease. MILK, MOMMA!" He chugged a 10 oz cup of milk like he'd been sleeping out in the desert for a week.