The past several visits to the doctor (both his regularly scheduled ones and when he was sick), Henry was quite gregarious. After we’d strip him down to only his socks and diaper (always a good look, let me tell you), he’d want to start wandering around, smiling and chatting and letting everyone check out his little tummy.

This time, however, he wanted nothing to with anyone other than Kristen or I, and he clung to us.

You see, Henry’s going through something of a shy phase. That’s actually a bit of an understatement. When in the presence of a stranger, he’ll bury his head into my chest or Kristen’s neck or my armpit (poor choice, Henry). If he’s not being held by one of us, he’ll wrap his arms around a leg and hold on tight.

It’s quite endearing, actually — a nice hug really gets right to your gut — and we know that he’ll grow out of it (it’s pretty typical for kids his age), but it can be a bit of a problem when he, say, needs to have his ears checked or his throat or measured.

(A measuring update: he’s a little over 34 inches tall — which is 90th percentile — and 24 1/2 pounds — which is below the 50th. He’s still long and skinny.)

So when Dr. Weinstein was doing his thing, there were howls and tears and gnashing of teeth, but as soon as he was far enough away from the doctor and able to hug Kristen, it all stopped. No more tears.

An aside: Henry has, to my displeasure, begun to call out “Mommy” when he’s sad or scared or hungry or worried. I can be right there — or, even worse, holding him — and if he wants something, it’s all Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. Kristen seems quite happy about this development, however. Go figure.

Then we dressed him, and he was happy because he thought it was time to go, but, of course, there was the dreaded shot.

He only got one this time (and I think he’s done with most of his shots for another year), but he was so unhappy after, he didn’t even want the Bugs Bunny bandage. Refusing Bugs? Sacrilege.

And hopefully, he won’t be back there for another six months. Unless, of course, he starts asking us if he can have another shot, just for fun.

Henry’s clothes suddenly no longer fit.

Yesterday, Kristen was dressing Henry and put on his classy Spider-Man t-shirt, and the sleeves, that once comfortably went down to past his wrist, are now barely past his elbows!

This morning, she put on his spiffy plaid pants, and they rested just below his knees!

(Of course, being good parents, we didn’t change his clothes. Although we did vow that it was the last time he’d wear them. If we remember.)

This, of course, shouldn’t be a surprise. I mean, he’s nearly 17 months old (gulp), and that is at the end of the 12-18 month clothing range. But I was hoping that he’d be able to stretch out the use of this lot of clothes for another few months.

Unfortunately, we’re probably going to have to do the clothing purge (where we go through his drawers and pack away all the too-small shirts and pants) and head off to the mall to get him some replacement garb.

And you all know how much I love the mall…

Still am, in fact.

It’s the sickest I’ve been since I can remember. On Saturday, I started to feel a bit out of sorts. Sunday, I was worse. By Sunday night, I was shivering and feverish, and I was worse Monday morning.

I stayed home from work on Monday, of course. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. When I spoke with my boss on the phone Thursday, he told me to stay home on Friday so as not to get anyone at the office sick.

Yes, I’m still sick. Miserable. With coughs, fever, sinus headaches, and aches.

I went to the doctor who told me it was the flu (no, really?). When I asked if I should be tested for H1N1, he said that the results took five days, and by then, I’d either be getting better or hospitalized.

Nice, eh?

Well, five days later, and I’m feeling better. Not much better, but better. I actually left the house once yesterday and twice today. Last night was the first that I didn’t have to change my shirt at least once. (Ew.) I assume that this is the dreaded swine flu, and thankfully Henry has been vaccinated. Miraculously, Kristen seems to have either not gotten it or beaten it much more quickly than I did. (She, too, stayed home sick on Monday.)

So that’s why there hasn’t been any posts. You’d think that me sitting at home doing nothing (or trying to get work done) would give me ample opportunity to write the blog, but I had little or no energy for it and I lacked any amount of creativity.

But I’m back.

Before I get to Henry, a story.

A former co-worker of mine, Erika, was a strange eater. A lovely young woman (funny, terrific singer, Scandinavian), she and I and a few others would often head off to eat at a Greek diner around the corner from the office.

Now this place wasn’t terrific, but it made pretty solid diner food: club sandwiches, patty melts, Monte Cristos. And omelets. Erika always ate an omelet, with hash browned potatoes and wheat toast.

That is not strange. (Who doesn’t like an omelet?) What was strange was that she’d eat each individual food on her plate completely separately. First, she’d eat the omelet. Then the potatoes. Then the toast. She would not touch the potatoes until the eggs were gone.

I have never met another person who eats like this. It was shocking to me the first time I saw her do it, and every time since then.

What does this have to do with Henry? Well, Henry’s been getting much better with feeding himself with a spoon. Gripping it tightly in his hand, he will scoop up his macaroni and cheese or ravioli or vegetables, and shove it into his awaiting mouth-hole.

Then, as he still munches away, he’ll go in for the next scoop.

There is only one drawback to this in that it doubles meal time. While Kristen or I can get him fed in 15 minutes if we’re in control of dispensing the food, when Henry’s in charge, it becomes quite the marathon.

Lately, however, he’s been doing something that would make Erika go nuts.

He’ll take a scoop of something solid. Let’s say it’s some rotini with ground turkey sausage. With the spoon full, he’ll move over to another bowl on his highchair tray, something a little more loose (applesauce, hummus), and take a scoop of that.

He’s mixing his food.

Is this something to be excited about or is this just the fever talking? I’m thinking we have to be even more adventurous and offer him sauces and more.

Anyway, that’s one quick story (preceded by two other quick stories), and with me on the mend, there will be more. Promise.

But yesterday, for the first time, he realized where he was and what was going to happen to him. He saw the cheesy pictures hanging from the wall, the bad wallpaper, the cold, sterile examination table, and put 2 and 2 together to get “owie”.

So he cried a little and didn’t want the nurse to weigh and measure him, and when the doctor came in, he clung to me like a leech to my leg that one time I went swimming in a pond in Louisiana. (Note: that never happened.)

To pass the time between the doctor and nurse coming in, the only thing that made him happy was running around the office. So our child — wearing only a diaper — was scampering about, saying “hell-looow” (that’s how he pronounces it — a lilting “hell” and a drawn out “looooow”) to all the other patients and employees.

A quick aside. Henry likes to run around naked and/or in his diaper. Unfortunately, whenever we’ve lately taken his diaper off, it’s either to get him into a tub, change it, or have him sit on the potty. Yesterday morning, after Kristen left for work, I took off his diaper, turned to get something out of his drawer, and saw him standing over the potty, urinating… well, not into it, but in its vicinity. He gave himself a nice round of applause, and scooted off to the living room as I wiped up the liquid gold.

So, back to the doctor. Everything is fine with Henry: he’s hitting all those milestones, eating right, etc. When I got back to work, I put his new measurements into a handy-dandy calculator to see how he compared with other kids his age.

He’s 33 inches tall. That puts him in the 90th percentile. (We assume he’ll be tall. While Kristen’s short-ish, her father is over 6 feet and I’m 6′ 2″.

His head is 48 centimeters in circumference. That’s in the 75th percentile. So he has a nice sized noggin, but not too big.

He weighs 22 pounds, 5 ounces. That puts him in the — get this — 20th percentile. 20th! So, he’s taller than 90 percent of all 15-month-olds, but is heavier than only 20 percent! String bean city!

We knew he was skinny because his pants keep on falling down, but this is just insane!

And it’s not like we don’t feed him enough! Sometimes he shoves so much food into his mouth, I don’t know how he breathes! (The funny thing is, after his dinner — which lately has been spinach and cheese ravioli with tomato sauce — his stomach sticks out like a cartoon character’s! I’m waiting for the day his tummy button — which he can point to, by the way — pops out like a turkey timer!)

I’m not really concerned. He’s growing, he’s eating, he’s pooping — all with regularity. I just want him to get a little meat on them there bones.

I liked the old look, but some people were having issues with the columns, and as much as I tried to debug it, I couldn’t figure it out. So, instead, I started from scratch with a new template. (Well, a template that someone offered for free on the web which I did some fiddling with.)

Kristen will be creating a new banner as well, so you’ll be saying goodbye to the old one. (I know you’ll all miss it so.)

Speaking of faces, did you happen to check out the shiner on Henry’s mug in the previous (naked) post? Last Friday, he bonked his cheekbone pretty good on the corner of a bookshelf (he was running and thinking he was invincible; the bookshelf had other ideas), and has had a gigantic bruise ever since. After the swelling went down, it was replaced by a black eye that has stuck around for a few days.

Just before that, he had a nice bump/scratch on his forehead, and before that he had a fat lip. Oh, and before that, there was the scraped chin.

As much as I’d love to wrap him in bubble wrap (for both his safety and the fun of popping his cocoon), this is just the time where he’s going from walking to running and climbing and experimenting with what he can physically do, and he’s bound to get bumps and bruises along the way.

That doesn’t stop us from feeling his pain as only parents can.

That is until early Friday afternoon when Silvia called to say that Henry’s fever had returned, this time to 103. So she drove down to the doctor’s and Kristen met them there. He was again tested for the H1N1 flu (negative for a second time), and we were told to watch out for him, check to see if the fever didn’t go down, and for a nasty rash.

Well, that night, a few hours after putting Henry to bed, he woke up crying and crying. When I went in to console him with hugs and some water, I found him completely drenched in sweat — his hair was as wet as if he just got out of the bath.

So, his fever broke. Which was a good thing.

It didn’t stop him from being crabby, however. And also a little wobbly on his feet. The past couple of weeks Henry has gone from a halting stumble to a pretty confident strut. But on Friday and Saturday, he could barely take two steps without plopping on his butt, often with a very sad face.

Saturday he was feverless (albeit still crabby) and by Sunday he was much, much better.

When we were giving him a bath last night, we saw what we thought were hives on his back and chest (he’s had them before), and thought nothing of it. This morning, however, when he woke up, his entire body was covered in a red, bumpy rash.

Roseola.

Henry was pink and bumpy, and not in a good way. (Because, really, don’t you think there’s a good way to be pink and bumpy?)

The thing is, once you see the rash, you’re already on the road to recovery. No more fever, reduced crabbiness, and a steadiness on the feet.

There’s a good chance he’ll be clear by tomorrow and be back to his normal, happy self. That is, until the next tooth starts coming in…

And then this morning he woke up with a temperature of more than 101, so gone went the mild cold and instead we got a little worried.

Worried about swine flu, of course.

We gave him some acetaminophen, put him in a cold tub, fed him some oatmeal, and put him back to sleep and waited to call the doctor’s office to make an appointment.

I took off from work, and then, after he woke from his too-short nap, drove down to get a check-up.

Let me tell you: there are some serious concerns about the flu. A note on the office door said that if your child had a fever, you should knock, wait for someone to come and get your information, take your co-pay, and then head on to the back door where you are led directly into an examination room, where you are met by the receptionist, your receipt in hand.

After being thoroughly examined (his temperature dropped to 100.6), a cotton swab was shoved up his nose and off it went to be tested for the H1N1 flu.

Thankfully, it came up negative.

While that made Kristen and I much happier, it really did nothing for Henry’s mood, and he continued to be crabby and miserable the rest of the day. (To pile onto his maladies, he’s also constipated. Oh, joy.)

He’s sleeping now (a fitful sleep, it seems, as he’s been making some chirps and moans). Poor kid.

But at least it wasn’t the pigs.

I’m no fan of bugs, but if I see one crawling around the bathroom (the favorite haunt of the many legged ones), I’ll grab some toilet paper and go smooshing. If Kristen sees said bug, there will be screams, prancing around on tiptoes, and likely tears. (This is where I, as the husband, come swooping in and crush that arrogant arachnid, saving the day. Sometimes I wear a cape.)

In Maine and Massachusetts there were, thankfully, no bugs to be found in the hotel rooms. Outside, however, was another matter. I don’t know what makes it different up there in New England — is it the salty sea water? the crustaceans? the accents? — but they make their bugs big. Really big.

Especially the mosquitoes, which I think were actually half-puma. They were gigantic and hairy, and when they landed on you, you could feel their weight. If you tried to swat them away, they fought back!

When we finally left Maine, Kristen and I were covered in bug bites, huge welts all over our arms, legs, and back. Not only were they itchy and uncomfortable, but they were red and quite obvious when wearing short sleeved shirts, shorts, or, in Kristen’s case on Saturday, a short red bridesmaid dress.

I’m still a little itchy, but thankfully the boils have begun to subside. Next time, we all have to remember to bring a gallon of bug repellent.

We were planning on going out for dinner (with our downstairs neighbor Lillian looking after Henry), but plans changed when our little boy went and got himself sick. This morning, after waking up from his first nap, he threw up, and this afternoon, proving that the morning puke was no isolated incident, he threw up again two times in rapid succession. (The first time was on the beach, the second time was in the stroller on the way home from the beach. Guess who got to clean that up?)

When we got home, Henry was sleeping in Super-Nanny Silvia’s arms (he was so tired that after he hugged her he just started to snooze). He woke up when we came over to him and even though he was obviously under the weather and exhausted, he still smiled at us.

It was sort of funny, actually. He would smile at us and laugh and try and play but then, moments later, he’d groan and moan and whine. We’d give him a hug, and that would perk him up until he’d start smiling again. That wouldn’t last, and he’d start moaning again.

Kristen fed him and tried to put him to sleep at 6:45. No go. I took over and did my fatherly best. After rocking him and singing to him for 20 minutes, he fell asleep in my arms but as soon as I tried to put him down in the crib he’d start crying. No, not crying. Howling. I tried again. After 45 minutes with a miserable baby wide awake, Kristen’s second shift began. She was able to work her magic and Henry finally fell asleep at 8:30.

Of course, this won’t last, as he’ll be up three or four times throughout the night, and Kristen’s birthday, which was to include sushi and perhaps a glass or two of wine, will be spent hugging and consoling and rocking a sick baby.

These are the willing sacrifices we make when we have a wonderful, amazing little kid.

Overall, it was a great day and weekend, somewhat dampened by the cold that Henry was fighting (and losing). Friday night his sniffles turned to an all-out mucus fest, and he spent most of the time moaning in his sleep. Saturday morning we took him to the doctor’s where we were told that he was a terrifically well-tempered patient and, more important to the issue at hand, just had a cold and nothing worse. (I’m looking at you, swine flu.)

Just a cold didn’t stop him from having some spectacular mucus episodes, but I won’t get into the gory details. Instead, I’m going to get into even more gory details. (A warning: if you’ve got a delicate stomach, you may not want to read further.)

On Sunday evening, Kristen, Henry, our downstairs neighbor Lillian, and I all cooked out and had a wonderful dinner on the back patio. Henry was much better than Friday or Saturday (sniffles nearly gone, no fever), and he was bouncing about and having the time of his life making everyone else laugh.

At about 6:45, though, he started to rub his eyes and make some unpleasant groans, signalling it was time for bed. So up Kristen went (I stayed down and finished my dinner, since I had been holding Henry while everyone else had been eating), and she put his pajamas on and fed him and put him in the crib.

Now, when Henry is placed in his crib, he does one of three things, each happening about an equal number of times. The first is that he immediately rolls over to his side and falls asleep. The second is he doesn’t fall asleep right away, and instead starts chattering to his blanket or his fish mobile until, after 5 minutes or so, he zonks out. The third (and most unpleasant) is he starts acting generally unhappy when we walk away, leading to moans, cries, and crocodile tears, which necessitates one of us going in and rocking him for a while (or, in even worse situations, rocking him and feeding him and comforting him for a long while) until he’s so exhausted he has no choice but to fall asleep.

When Kristen walked away, Henry was doing the second option. By the time she got back down to the patio, three floors below, he was closing in on the third, and it was quickly escalating. So I shoveled the last of my dinner in my mouth and went back upstairs where, after only 2 minutes or so, Henry was in the middle of a spectacular meltdown.

He was there, on his hands and knees, wailing, the tears jumping out of the corner of his eyes like a cartoon. To make matters worse, he had also a full (and quite smelly) diaper. So I swooped him up in my arms, held him close, and told him that everything was going to be okay.

This did nothing to lessen his anguish, however, and he cried even more, now with the tears splashing onto my glasses so I was nearly blind. (Slight exaggeration.) Just as I was walking him over to the changing pad to get him out of his dirty diaper, he got very rigid, placed his hands on my chest and pushed so that he was looking right at me, and proceeded to vomit. All… over… the… place.

It was on my shirt, my shorts, my shoes.

It splashed on the floor behind me and on the curtains.

It drenched the small throw rug I was standing on.

And it smelled like rotten cheese.

And then, because it wasn’t horrible enough, he did it again.

After he finished (there was nothing left in him, I reckon, after two purges), he looked up at me and smiled.

So I kicked off my shoes, walked to the back door, stuck my head out, and yelled for Kristen to get up here.

She came running up and we got everything clean and ready and stripped Henry down (and got my shirt off) and headed off to the bathroom for another bath (for him) and shower (for me).

But here’s the kicker: as we’re walking down the hall to the bathroom, both Henry and I smelling something fierce, me not in the best mood of my life, he puts his head on my vomit-y shoulder, smiles, and says, “Dada.”

What a great Father’s Day.