So. Internet. People of the Internet. YOU THERE. I need to know something.
I need to know that I am NOT the only wackalooned paranoid freak who occasionally gets a completely crazy random thought that comes out of nowhere but then decides to burrow in your brain and not leave, even though you KNOW it's crazy random, and eventually you're like, "OKAY FINE, I'll do something about it just so I can know definitively for sure that I'm ridiculous and don't have to worry about it anymore." And then you take said Crazy Random Thought to the appropriate authority figure, expecting to be laughed at, except that then you actually get taken seriously and the authority figure agrees with you that yes, actually, We Must Investigate This Crazy Random Thought Which Actually Could Be Quite Serious. And then you panic and die because WHAT.
Translation: About a month ago Ezra started drinking a lot. (Water, that is. Not booze. Yet.) Actually, it started off with milk. After dinner he brought me his empty cup and desperately signed "thirsty" over and over again. I gave him some milk, which he chugged as if he hadn't seen liquids in DAYS. And he then proceeded to drink two more full sippy cups' worth in about 15 minutes. I thought maybe I'd oversalted his dinner. But then it slowly dawned on me in the days afterward that WOW, this kid gets thirsty a whole lot. Desperately thirsty, too. He'd throw his body at the dishwasher and try to scale the countertop at the sight of a sippy cup in the cabinet. He'd sign thirsty over and over and over and over again. He needed water at night, first thing in the morning, water water water all the time. He'd drink as though parched and gulp and gasp, even if he'd just had a sip minutes before.
So of course, I totally diagnosed him with Hysterical Diabetes. Which is just like regular diabetes except that it is Not Real and Imaginary and you only think about it at 2 am in the middle of the night when you can't call and make a doctor's appointment, but can totally get on Google and scare the crap out of yourself.
Fast forward to yesterday, when I called to make Ezra's 18-month (!!!!!!) check-up. And I casually mentioned that heeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyy, I know this sounds crazy but... And the receptionist agreed that yes, I was probably crazy but she'd have a nurse call me back in a bit with the official diagnosis of crazy.
Except that the nurse didn't seem to think I was crazy at all. At first, yes, she did. Then she started distinctly not liking my answers to her questions. Then she said she was going to talk to one of the doctors.
Then she called me back and told me they wanted to see Ezra that day, as soon as possible.
And this is where the "panic and die" part comes in, because no. No, you were supposed to Dismiss My Fears, lady. You were supposed to Reassure Me. Then hang up on me and make jokes to all the other nurses about Mothers These Days With The Googling.
So Ezra and I went to the doctor, where I learned how they retrieve urine samples from non-potty-trained babies. (Cut a hole in a diaper. Stick a glorified medical-grade Ziploc bag in that diaper. Stick your dick in that...okay I'm done.) The doctor came in and it was all lovely and I did this thing I do where I basically pre-emptively apologize for the negative test result and wasting everybody's time, but SINCE I'M HERE, let me tell you about how much this kid drinks.
And indeed, Ezra downed an entire sippy cup's contents while we there and demonstrated the whole parched-in-the-desert style of gulping and gasping he likes to do. The doctor's eyebrows went up and she said something like, "Yeah. No. I don't like that."
But! The test results WERE negative. Resoundingly negative and normal and his urine is a wonderland of the most perfect urine ever. Which: Of course! I knew it! Seriously, you guys, you're professionals. You should know better than to listen to my nonsense.
The doctor felt we should retest in a month or so, at his next physical, unless I observed anything different, like vomiting or crazzzzzzzy wet diapers that go even beyond the amount he pees now. (Which is a lot, as you might expect.)
Two guesses about what happened last night, once we left: Unexplained puking of orange juice and a diaper so wet we had to change HIS SOCKS.
Honestly, I do think I have a pretty good gut instinct about these sorts of things, and right now my gut instinct is that I am totally being fucked with.