Ah, remember Schoolhouse Rock? Conjunction Junction, My Hero Zero, Three is the Magic Number... OK, so there's no story to here, I'm just enjoying a moment of free association. I was thinking about conjunctivitis, and my thoughts wandered off to those glorious lyrics of my youth...
The wee ones both have pink eye. It's our first bout, and while I should thank the universe for having spared us thus far, in truth I'm somewhat irritated. Literally, I'm irritated, in my right eye. I don't show any outward signs yet, but every time I look in the mirror, I brace myself thinking I'm going to be staring into my own red-eyed reflection. I'm trying not to itch or poke into either of my eyeballs, but it's like trying not to itch a tickle on your arm when you've just seen a flea crawling on a dog - dare I say, it's practically impossible!
While we've been in pretty good spirits throughout, the mood is dramatically altered four times a day when I have to dose my son with his antibiotic eye drops. Luckily for me, I've got a cunning leg maneuver that I've perfected for use during diaper changes. It's crossed over now, and become essential for keeping the little guy immobilized and in position to receive his meds. With the use of my leg trick and the incentive of a small ramekin of crackers, we manage to get the job done. I don't understand it, but my husband can get him to sit in his lap and willingly look up as the solution is dropped into each eye. Last night, there was even a request for "more." But I do it, and it's like I'm pouring acid on him. The disparity is just so irksome.
Tomorrow may prove to be a challenge. We're still banished from our local haunts - no one wants to play with kids with crusty, swollen eyes - and we've already been to the grocery store twice in as many days, the first time out of need, the second because I'd forgotten the dog food the day before. It'll be a solid week before I want to see the inside of the Lebanon Coop again. We can go for a walk if it's nice, but there's some rumor of a small snow storm coming our way. No doubt, I'll be asked to sing several rounds of "Hello," "Dress" and "Shakey" to get us through our morning. Good thing they seem to like my voice.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Round 2
Today was my son's turn to experience loss of appetite, two naps, and VIP seating on mommy's lap. Our chiropractor was kind enough to call and check on us after we'd been in this afternoon. She even offered to stop by on her way home and do a recheck. We gladly accepted since my son was weirdly clinging to me with a listless expression on his face, and showed absolutely no interest in his favorite food (bunny crackers). As his sister was eating her dinner, he was snug in my arms and becoming increasingly lethargic. At my husband's urging we retrieved the thermometer, and after some ineffectual protesting, managed to take an under arm temperature of 101.7 °F. Just about the time our beloved chiropractor was pulling up to our house (her office is literally a 5-minute drive from our place), I felt the first wave of warm slime hit my shoulder. Round 2 was underway. I deserved it didn't I? I'd flaunted my arrogance by momentarily believing that my son would evade an encounter with my new foe: norovirus.
Surprisingly, we managed to wipe up (and towel off) a majority of the goop before Dr. Amber stepped foot into our kitchen (if only we could have just as easily wiped away the lung gripping stench of vomited milk). Anyhow, in the cloud of sick stench, she went to work and was able to adjust my son without his uttering a single whimper or complaint. Within minutes, he'd slipped off of my lap and began walking around the kitchen. Not the same boy. At her suggestion, we took his temperature again. Even though the first reading had been taken only a few minutes earlier, his fever was down to 99 °F. My husband and I looked at each other, stunned.
After many thanks and the acquisition of a number of stickers (Dr. Amber had brought her secret weapon: a sticker pack from the dollar store), we were able to head upstairs with the kids and continue with our regular bed time routine. In our crazy lives, house calls are a real blessing.
Surprisingly, we managed to wipe up (and towel off) a majority of the goop before Dr. Amber stepped foot into our kitchen (if only we could have just as easily wiped away the lung gripping stench of vomited milk). Anyhow, in the cloud of sick stench, she went to work and was able to adjust my son without his uttering a single whimper or complaint. Within minutes, he'd slipped off of my lap and began walking around the kitchen. Not the same boy. At her suggestion, we took his temperature again. Even though the first reading had been taken only a few minutes earlier, his fever was down to 99 °F. My husband and I looked at each other, stunned.
After many thanks and the acquisition of a number of stickers (Dr. Amber had brought her secret weapon: a sticker pack from the dollar store), we were able to head upstairs with the kids and continue with our regular bed time routine. In our crazy lives, house calls are a real blessing.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Taking a breather
I typically have a very predictable routine for myself while the kids are napping. No, it does not include a nap for myself. (Please don't be one of those people who suggests to new parents that they should nap when the child is napping - those people, though trying to be helpful, are irritating.) I depend on my routine to give my day some semblance of normalcy. People who leave home for their work probably eat lunch at a regular time each day, or at the very least, know they're going to shower before heading out the door. Me, I look forward to the kids' nap time for my routine: I make sure to pee by myself, prepare and eat my lunch without interruption, and tend to some regular chores (dogs, laundry, etc.). I don't think it's asking a lot of the universe to honor my needs. Unfortunately, our household is still recovering (as is my daughter) from the effects of this stomach bug and let's just say that at the moment, my sanity is peering over the edge of a tall and rocky cliff.
This morning all the rules and routine were abandoned in favor of basic survival skills: continuous cartoon television and permission to eat food on the couch. The television was used to distract my son from the fact that my complete attention was being focused on his sister, who either needed to be in my lap, or huddled into the corner of the couch with her friends (baby Elmo, puppet Elmo, Charger the horse, bunny bear, flower blankie, plaid blankie, water sippy cup, milk sippy cup, and of course there were two giraffe Sobees). The television was also used to distract my daughter during those moments when I had to refill milk cups, get more dry cereal or change someone's diaper. Of course, anytime I repositioned my gal, or attempted to downsize her entourage (it's a daily battle I wage), small groans and/or high pitched screaming ensued.
It's only mid-afternoon and I'm exhausted. Ironically, now that both children are asleep (her second nap, and the tail end of his first) you'd think I could go about the business of carrying out my routine - except that I already ate lunch (one of the things I look forward to most) while trying to convince my gal to eat something besides a popsicle. At this point the thought of starting in on a chore or project is more draining than exhilarating, given that my son could wake at any moment. Only 2 hours and 20 minutes before my husband gets home!
This morning all the rules and routine were abandoned in favor of basic survival skills: continuous cartoon television and permission to eat food on the couch. The television was used to distract my son from the fact that my complete attention was being focused on his sister, who either needed to be in my lap, or huddled into the corner of the couch with her friends (baby Elmo, puppet Elmo, Charger the horse, bunny bear, flower blankie, plaid blankie, water sippy cup, milk sippy cup, and of course there were two giraffe Sobees). The television was also used to distract my daughter during those moments when I had to refill milk cups, get more dry cereal or change someone's diaper. Of course, anytime I repositioned my gal, or attempted to downsize her entourage (it's a daily battle I wage), small groans and/or high pitched screaming ensued.
It's only mid-afternoon and I'm exhausted. Ironically, now that both children are asleep (her second nap, and the tail end of his first) you'd think I could go about the business of carrying out my routine - except that I already ate lunch (one of the things I look forward to most) while trying to convince my gal to eat something besides a popsicle. At this point the thought of starting in on a chore or project is more draining than exhilarating, given that my son could wake at any moment. Only 2 hours and 20 minutes before my husband gets home!
Monday, March 10, 2008
A wRETCHed night
That crying that I was ignoring last night, it was only the prelude to my evening. As I was beginning to clean up the kitchen, which really amounts to various small yet overwhelming tasks (putting away the vegetables I'd hoped to prepare for a future meal, washing the countless pieces and parts of the ten or so different brands of sippy cups that we own, not to mention wiping off the now dried and crusty baby food smear from the dining room table), I heard the piercing cry from the second floor...
After entering my daughter's darkened room, I could see that she was sitting upright in her crib. As I approached, my hand fumbling across her face to feel for her mouth (it's not unusual for her to be crying because she's lost her pacifier), there was no sign of her pacifier, only wet slimy yuck. Then I heard it - retching. And felt it - more wet, slimy yuck. Thankfully, my eyes were only beginning to adjust to the darkness. Soon my husband was in there too and all I could muster was "She's throwing up!"
It was a long night, made longer yet by my incredibly uncomfortable and stiff neck (according to my chiropractor, my neck was doomed given my penchant for stomach sleeping). So anyway, I can't turn my head from side to side, my little gal is puking up chunks of orange I'd so proudly fed her during her nightly viewing of Dora The Explorer, and my son thinks that we're willfully torturing his sister for reasons unknown. Papa was wise enough to attempt to calmly explain why our daughter was screaming like she'd been riding Space Mountain, while I took the sickie face downstairs to cuddle in the recliner and watch cartoons in the dark. Truthfully, I was more scared of my daughter's reaction to her giraffe Sobees disappearing one by one (they were being sent off to the washing machine by her dedicated and sleepless Papa - along with the sheets and growing piles of towels we were using to contain the mess), than I was of my own contamination. Apparently it's not that unusual, but the absence of these prized possessions has often caused near rioting by my daughter. I'd venture to say that her giraffe Sobees are even more desirable than her blankies.
Well I obviously survived the night and subsequent morning, though only because my husband called in sick to work in order to help take care of the patient and her brother, and to try to get some rest (I know that last part sounds silly, but I certainly wasn't going to talk him out of staying home). It's probably best if I end here, so that I can remember to thank him for his help on my way to bed.
Goodnight.
After entering my daughter's darkened room, I could see that she was sitting upright in her crib. As I approached, my hand fumbling across her face to feel for her mouth (it's not unusual for her to be crying because she's lost her pacifier), there was no sign of her pacifier, only wet slimy yuck. Then I heard it - retching. And felt it - more wet, slimy yuck. Thankfully, my eyes were only beginning to adjust to the darkness. Soon my husband was in there too and all I could muster was "She's throwing up!"
It was a long night, made longer yet by my incredibly uncomfortable and stiff neck (according to my chiropractor, my neck was doomed given my penchant for stomach sleeping). So anyway, I can't turn my head from side to side, my little gal is puking up chunks of orange I'd so proudly fed her during her nightly viewing of Dora The Explorer, and my son thinks that we're willfully torturing his sister for reasons unknown. Papa was wise enough to attempt to calmly explain why our daughter was screaming like she'd been riding Space Mountain, while I took the sickie face downstairs to cuddle in the recliner and watch cartoons in the dark. Truthfully, I was more scared of my daughter's reaction to her giraffe Sobees disappearing one by one (they were being sent off to the washing machine by her dedicated and sleepless Papa - along with the sheets and growing piles of towels we were using to contain the mess), than I was of my own contamination. Apparently it's not that unusual, but the absence of these prized possessions has often caused near rioting by my daughter. I'd venture to say that her giraffe Sobees are even more desirable than her blankies.
Well I obviously survived the night and subsequent morning, though only because my husband called in sick to work in order to help take care of the patient and her brother, and to try to get some rest (I know that last part sounds silly, but I certainly wasn't going to talk him out of staying home). It's probably best if I end here, so that I can remember to thank him for his help on my way to bed.
Goodnight.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Getting Started
Today I stuck my finger in my daughter's poop. Why not begin there? Obviously it wasn't intentional, and to my credit, it hasn't happened in a really long time. Still, I'm beyond the stage where I think of the kids' poop as being on par with say, rotten fruit. It's not quite like mistakenly sticking my finger in the dogs' poop, but it's ratcheted up to being pretty bad. It was also while we had company, so that undermined my show of tremendous diapering abilities. Thankfully, our guests have 21-month-old twins too, and took it all in stride.
OK, now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'll transition to expressing what I think is gratitude to my friend Jenn for inadvertently inspiring me to start my own blog. I just got a link to Jenn's blog, which is about raising her twin girls, and I was blown away by the great fun and creativity that she infuses into their daily existence. They do things that a person like me would pay to read about in a magazine or book. So basically, in comparison to our family, she and her husband are super adventurous in their parenting.
Crying from upstairs... (I think I'll ignore it!)
Before I really do have to run off, I'll end with my surprise at how freeing this seems, a bit along the lines of what I imagine walking around in a bikini might feel like, except that I don't actually have to put on a swimsuit, and more importantly, 21 months after giving birth to the kids, I think a bikini would have deleterious effects on my self esteem.
OK, now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'll transition to expressing what I think is gratitude to my friend Jenn for inadvertently inspiring me to start my own blog. I just got a link to Jenn's blog, which is about raising her twin girls, and I was blown away by the great fun and creativity that she infuses into their daily existence. They do things that a person like me would pay to read about in a magazine or book. So basically, in comparison to our family, she and her husband are super adventurous in their parenting.
Crying from upstairs... (I think I'll ignore it!)
Before I really do have to run off, I'll end with my surprise at how freeing this seems, a bit along the lines of what I imagine walking around in a bikini might feel like, except that I don't actually have to put on a swimsuit, and more importantly, 21 months after giving birth to the kids, I think a bikini would have deleterious effects on my self esteem.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)