She's doing it again. The "belly hurt." The thumb sucking, muffled grunts. The closed eyes, curled legs. Slight, one hundred degree temperature.
She's two. Two year olds don't sit on the couch for four hours reading books. Leaving only for retrieval of a new stack of books or bathroom breaks.
Sure, she's not screaming and writhing in pain this time; but neither is Comfortable her middle name.
I don't know what to do for her. After nearly three years, I'm well aware doctors don't have a fucking clue what kind of freak study she is and, therefore, don't want to get too involved. The GI doctor is too far away to pop in and say, "Oh, hey-- by the way-- do you mind taking a quick sneak peek and letting me know I'M NOT FUCKING CRAZY!"
This is, by far, the worst part of being a parent. The complete and total inability to take away pain and suffering of one of your most precious loves.
If I could have one magical power, that would be it, the ability to siphon pain.