In this edition of Things I Never Thought I’d Hear, See, or Do Before I had a kid:

HEAR: Yesterday I called the doctor with my symptoms and was told I should be seen right away. A couple of hours later, I walked away with a prescription and a diagnosis. The diagnosis, which was given after my reply of yes to the question “Does it feel like knives running through your chest?”: intraductal candidiasis. What’s that, you ask? Why, it means that my tit has a yeast infection. Thank you very much. Something I never knew existed, much less ever expected to hear. Apparently it can come from me (that pesky boob sitting in a wet bikini too long by the pool) or The Kid (his moist, warm–eww–mouth is a breeding ground for such fungi), and we can pass it to each other. Like herpes! The gift that keeps on giving, until you go to Target and get your prescription filled. And TK rips the loudest fart ever in that linoleum-floored, acoustically gifted environment.

SEE: Doody on male genitalia. Tiny male genitalia. To the point that I have to go on an expedition every time I change his diaper, poking around his double marble set and mini-wiener (“Excuse me, it’s actually quite large”–The Husband) for stray smears of curry-colored or green-tinged delights. I’m used to a small canvas–I work with teeth, after all, when I work–but these jewels need to be protected, and gingerly is putting it mildly for how I deal with them. TH put it best the other night when he was changing TK’s diaper and proclaimed, “You know, in all my planning for the future, I just never saw myself wiping down baby balls.”

DO: If you’re still reading (haha, those other pansies, always so easily offended!), the following account may remedy that. I had a slight fever when the nurse took my temperature at said doctor’s office, and as a result was paranoid about TK’s warmness for the rest of the day. We took an armpit temperature, which is not entirely accurate but lightened my concern a bit. Then this morning, he had three dirty diapers in the span of an hour and was super-fussy (read: a-hole behavior). So I rolled up my hoodie sleeves, pulled out my iPhone, and Googled “how to take a rectal temperature.” A minute later, I was lubing up the thermometer and saying prayers to avoid perforations of the rectal persuasion. I was in there for awhile–like, prison-level duration–without the thermometer beeping, but when a stream of poo covered the tip of the stick I decided it was time to exit. The reading was 99.1. Now, I like to consider myself a pretty accomplished lass, but let me tell you, when I retrieved that device after a successful performance and subsequently put TK down for a non-feverish nap, I felt like I had climbed Everest. Kind of like I do every time he smiles.

Does anyone else hear that bottle of wine calling my name from the other room?