Turns out the snortlepig wasn’t over her ailment after all. She vomited again twice - once just as she was latching on, which is a singularly unpleasant experience unique to breastfeeding mothers - and last night became too fretful to sleep at all. And I do mean “at all” - I think I got maybe an hour’s sleep sometime after 6:22AM? The rest of the night was spent trying to console a fitful, twisting, exhausted piggie whose version of counting sheep was to adopt a series of increasingly Cirque du Soleil sleeping positions, most of which involved sharp body parts in my throat.
So this morning we staggered blearily to the doctor’s - her first doctor’s appointment, come to think of it, which isn’t too shabby for fifteen months. The snortlepig submitted warily to having her squish prodded by a giggly English doctor (who said re squish “Ooh, I’ve never heard it called that before!” and referred to it as the “squidge” thereafter, which the pig bore with patience). The verdict was a vague “something viral” and the prescription of two lots of sweet sticky syrup, one of which performs a function too vile to name.